


Only Boys In Books Are Perfect

by Wanderlust3988



Series: To The Left Of Elysian [2]
Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Angst, Arranged Marriage, Drama & Romance, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Reader-Insert, Romance, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 12:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 61
Words: 262,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12012279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderlust3988/pseuds/Wanderlust3988
Summary: The ended season had perhaps defined more of your relationship than you had realized, and its absence, you feared the two of you would drift apart. The freedom its absence afforded you had left your marriage feeling strangely unfamiliar, and its aftermath threatened to determine your future.





	1. Stressed, Depressed, But Well Dressed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! First of all, thank you so much for all the lovely comments and the overwhelming enthusiasm I received in the prequel to this. I will get to all the comments, each one of them as I always do! I just thought you would appreciate the sequel as a form of thanks for all the love! I hope you grow just as fond of the continuation :)
> 
> I will list the timeline this takes place in at the end of the chapter so as to not spoil the original story for anyone who comes into this accidentally without reading that first, and does prefer to read that first. 
> 
> If you haven't read the prequel to this, I highly suggest it, you may get away with reading this - possibly - though a lot of references and emotional depth in the relationship will be lost to you. 
> 
> Anyway, without further ado, enjoy :)

You couldn’t help but feel you hadn’t appreciated Seto enough when he was beside you.

The open curtains allowed the moon to drown the room in silver; its glow washing in waves from the window, only to be consumed by the golden glow of the lamps against the otherwise dark room. Beads of sweat rolled down your forehead as you sat in the empty bed, your knees drawn to your chest.

With each night that passed without him, unrelenting nightmares haunted you, each growing continually worse than the last. Perhaps the trauma had taken time to properly materialize in your mind. Perhaps you shouldn’t have let him leave, though you knew you had held on to him long enough, your conscience wouldn’t allow you to hinder him or his ambition any longer. He didn’t want that, you reminded yourself.

Your breathing was ragged; your face glowing under the cover of a thin sheen of sweat, your white nightgown dampened by the sweat that had gathered and poured past your collarbones; you could feel stray hair sticking to your face.

You clapped the lights on, thoroughly unnerved. Reluctantly, you reached for your phone on the nightstand.

“Can we talk?” you typed into your messages after selecting the desired number.

A long moment stretched in silence without a reply.

You knew you shouldn’t have bothered him, but his was the only number you could think to type.

Another moment passed before your phone rang. Enabling the video, you answered.

“What is it?” he questioned sharply, eyes narrowing in observation.

“Sorry, I – I shouldn’t have called you,” you faltered.

“I asked you why you’re calling me at two in the morning,” he asked you more sternly. “Why do you look like that?”

Wearing a navy suit, he looked to be walking somewhere in a hurry, you could see figures walking beside him, hear voices next to him.

“Never mind I – You look busy.”

“I am, but I need to know why you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he grit his teeth, “what happened?”

You hesitated, mulling your words.

“I just missed you.”

He excused himself from the group of men he had been walking with.

“You’re having nightmares again.” It was a fact, a firm statement.

“No, it’s not that, I just missed you, it was ill timing calling you in the middle of your work day, I’ll call back,” you began to dismiss. You didn’t need him distracted out of needless concern.

“I’ve been in New York for five days,” he interjected sharply, “and this is the first time you’re answering one of my calls, let alone calling me yourself. I understand you’re busy but surely you have time for your own husband. What are you not telling me?” he demanded to know.

He was so frustratingly perceptive as it was; it was probably poor foresight to call him looking the way you did if you weren’t willing to offer him a proper explanation.

You yawned lightly, feeling sleep washing over you, though you refused to submit to it, paralyzed by the fear of experiencing those nightmares which caused your blood to run cold in your veins again.

“I did have a nightmare,” you admitted.

“Keep the lights on;” he advised gruffly, “my meeting should be over within the next thirty minutes. I’ll call you back; you can keep the video call going until you fall asleep then.”

 “Sorry,” you offered simply.

“I don’t know what you’re apologizing for,” he stated somewhat harshly, possibly as a result of him being surrounded by the employees of his New York branch, “I have to go, I’ll call you back.”

The screen went dark, and for a moment, you comforted yourself having found a certain sense of solace in his voice.

When he called you again, hardly fifteen minutes had passed.

“I thought you said your meeting would take half an hour?” you questioned.

“I took care of it early.”

“Sorry,” you spoke out of habit.

“Stop that,” he hissed.

“Sor-” you caught yourself.

He released an exhausted sigh, “It’s all in the past now,” he offered, his voice softening a degree. “You’re safe. I wouldn’t have left you alone otherwise, though I did ask you to come with me.”

“I know,” you agreed quietly.

“Get some sleep,” he urged, “I’ll wait until you’re awake.”

“You don’t need to do that, you must have other meetings, it’s barely half past one over there.”

“I can do both,” he insisted roughly, “sleep.”

 

 

Waking up to the incessant ringing of your alarm which was drilling at your ear drums, you rolled over, reaching for your phone reflexively, your eyes still closed as you were determined to squeeze out every last second of shut eye you could possibly afford yourself.

“Why are you waking up at five in the morning?” a disconnected voice questioned - as your alarm was rather violently silenced - effectively startling you, your eyes flying open to stare up at your phone, realizing the video call was still connected, memory returning to your conscious thought.

“Schedules,” you offered vaguely, your head somehow sensitive to his ceaseless typing in the background. “You still haven’t hung up?” you questioned blearily, eyes squinting, blinded by the light pouring through your screen.

“I will now,” he declared tersely, disconnecting the line.

You shook your head, a faint smile on your lips. He was so hopelessly taciturn sometimes.

…

The past few days had been torment in his absence. Not that you were a stranger to being alone, only, unfamiliar with what remained of your former life following the ensuing aftermath of the bitterly dark era – if you could call it that – the past few months had been. This was perhaps the most chilling spring you’ve ever had the misfortune to endure, and your childhood was closely reminiscent of the tales of the brothers Grimm.

Seeing a psychiatrist was very possibly in your horizons. You couldn’t step into a bathtub, you only felt safe sleeping alone with a gun buried under your pillow, and your subconscious mind was in turmoil as it struggled to come to grips with what had transpired. Panic attacks were a close friend.

Blood shot eyes stared back at you in the bathroom mirror, the accumulated hours of sleep you had deprived yourself of visibly manifesting itself on your physical form.

The day ahead promised to be gruelling, lined with endless schedules, and boy did it not fail to deliver on that promise. Passing much like the last, it was thoroughly exhausting. You were forced to find sleep leaning against a wall on the floor while waiting for the production team to change the backdrop for your magazine cover shoot sometime past one in the morning. Though this was infinitely more preferable to sleeping alone in the mansion, which you had actually avoided at all costs most nights, opting to stay at work late, typically having one of your secretaries find you the next morning passed out on your desk.

As early six rolled around that morning, you had allowed yourself a mere half an hour of sleep, though most of that was spent subconsciously listening in irritation to the production staff squawking about set changes in an odd, lucid state.

 

As you had expressed many times prior, you didn’t believe board meetings were ever good news; they never meant anything good for anyone. They were tedious, mind-numbing, ridiculously lengthy and just drab. If you were particular lucky, you would perhaps even have some sort of life changing bomb dropped on you.

This particular one found you in a white, long sleeved chiffon blouse under a black pinstripe corset which zipped at the front and a matching pair of flared pants. Your hair tied in a loose bun; you were tapping the heel of your Louboutin ankle boots in irritation; which continued to grow with each passing topic proposed for discussion.

“We are not forming a partnership with Schroeder Corp.” you interjected, _your husband would have a fit,_ “I realize we are falling behind on the  development of the actual game play, in fact I recall distinctly addressing this issue at the last board meeting, only for the concern to never be considered with any seriousness. I say things with a lot of foresight,” you asserted sharply, an eerie silence falling over the boardroom that stretched before you. “That said, I won’t allow the cutting edge technology of Kodama’s virtual reality helmets to be tarnished by the work of a third rate company like Schroeder Corp. We aren’t collaborating. Learn to apply your resources better. Get the animations and programming departments to do what they’re paid to do,” you barked at the new director of research and development, as she slowly unwrapped her fingers from around the mic in front of her, sinking back into her chair.

Like you had said, someone always drew the short end of the straw, and despite who it was, being the head of the two corporations, by extension in the end, it was always you.

“I need you on a flight to Seoul within the next few hours, visit our animations team in our Hongdae branch and review their proposals and progress. See if anything can be salvaged, but mostly monitor how they’re working. Report back before the end of the day,” you added looking at her.

She nodded, though there was an unreadable hesitance in her eyes.

Walking out of the meeting, your secretary fell into step behind you, trailing you as she reported a rather unfortunate incident.

“The Japanese Fair Trade Commission wants SKO under investigation for fraudulent view count and popularity generation of AoE’s new title track on streaming apps and portals. They feel illegal hacking programs were used to boost the song.”

“Wait, what?” you turned sharply on your heels, stopping, “they think we bolstered the group’s popularity through Kodama’s technology in a way that was unethical just because we broke records?”

You laughed incredulously. You knew exactly which bastard would set you up this way also.

She nodded. “Also, I think it’s worth taking a look at the headlines Third Dimension are making following the finishing leg of their world tour in Brazil,” she extended the article on her tablet to you. Quickly scanning the drunken, disgraceful display that was splayed across the front pages of many major Brazilian newspapers, you were enraged. Those boys were going to die by your hands.

“I want those nimrods straight home. Also, send a Venus flytrap to StarGate Entertainment for me, with a note sincerely conveying my thanks to Eiichi for reporting me to the JFTC for the fuck of it.”

“Yes ma’am,” she nodded again, “would that be all?”

You spun back on your heel, “No, actually, get me an update on how close we are to testing our virtual reality helmets on an actual human subject again, I want to see if the disorientation factor after leaving the game was worked out or at least significantly lessened. I’d like to get at least the technology on the market before Kaiba Corp.”

So far, this morning was finding you like a storm from the third ring of hell. How lovely. You missed your husband. Seto, as frenzied as he could grow to be of his own work, he had a strange way of centering you.

 

Hanging up the phone following a long, and vexingly uncomfortable conversation with the commissioner of the JFTC, the misunderstanding of the earlier fiasco was behind you, or so you sincerely hoped, because the languid manner in which that old man had drawled had made it difficult to discern his ‘can’ from his ‘cannot.’ His continued, extremely unwarranted suspicion had also wounded your pride and grated your nerves.

Hearing your office door open, you lifted your head away from your papers, startled slightly by the tall figure in the navy suit standing at the far end of your office.

_Well that’s a face you hadn’t expected to see for a long time._

“You don’t look very happy to see me,” he stated displeased, advancing towards you.

You couldn’t say you were thrilled, though certainly pleased.

“Seto, I didn’t expect you home till next week. How are you here?” you questioned.

You knew you shouldn’t have called him.

“I took care of business early,” he offered gruffly in response.

“Did you just get here?” you asked, finally standing up from your chair and walking around your desk up to him.

“Yes, though I was expecting a different reaction,” he remarked, looking down at you as he wrapped his arms behind your back.

“I didn’t mean to call you back so soon, didn’t mean to distract you, sorry,” you bit your lip apologetically.

“Don’t overestimate yourself,” he snarled after a moment of observing your expression.

You wouldn’t realise he was overcompensating to convince you.

“Excuse me?” you asked rather taken aback by his harrowing declaration.

“I didn’t come running here because you called or because I missed you,” he asserted, leaning over and forcefully taking your lips in his, forcing you to stagger back a step, though perhaps he was intentionally walking you backwards towards your desk. His kiss contradicted his words, telling a very different story. He lifted you up against your desk, forcing you to wrap your legs around him. “I need you to come with me somewhere.”

“Now? I can’t, I have a meeting to be at quarter past two, that’s barely ten minutes from now.”

“Cancel it,” he demanded; roughly crushing his lips against you, you could feel your chest burning up. Moaning into the kiss, you pulled yourself into him, wrapping your arms around his neck. He smirked at your reaction, a chuckle low in his throat smothering against your lips. You could just about die from how deep his tone had been just then. Tightening your legs around him, he hooked his hands under your thighs, lifting you against him, away from the desk. You moved your hips against his as you kissed him. “Don’t do that,” he husked, panting faintly as he pulled away, “makes me want to take you right here against the wall,” he spoke darkly, his eyes drifting past you to the glass wall which served as a large window behind you. Your breath hitched in your throat, his words unwittingly drawing a gasp from you. He chuckled again, eyes drifting towards your flushed cheeks.

“Where are we going?” you asked, desperate to distract him from the colour on your cheeks. His eyes darted up to yours.

“You’ll find out.”

…

Stepping out of his car, you put on your cat eye D&G sunglasses. The afternoon was unusually cold for the season, though the sun was blinding. As you watched him stalking up to you around the red, convertible Bentley, locking it, eyes obscured behind dark shades, you almost regretted not urging him to follow through on his offer to take you against your office wall.  

He lowered his glasses for a moment as he reached you, as if to appraise you.

“You should dress like this more often,” he purred in your ear, eliciting a shiver from you. A hand wrapping firmly around your waist, he pulled you against his side as he walked you forward.

The streets on this part of Domino – the more affluent parts – were usually always this empty, unless it was later at night when the nightlife animated the neighbourhood. The surrounding area was quiet, streets lined sparsely with trees, branches pouring over the many boutiques and restaurants on either side of the road. The occasionally passing car was always a luxury model.

“You’re taking me jewellery shopping?” you questioned peering up, as he led you up the steps to a small designer boutique.

“Do you want me to buy you jewellery?” he returned your question with another, rather brusquely.

It took you a moment to process the bluntness of the question.

“You can tell me,” he assured, holding the door open for you at your apparent hesitation.

“No, I mean, what woman doesn’t like being bought jewellery, but no, I just wanted to know what we were doing here,” you stuttered, slightly embarrassed by the way he had posed the question.

He didn’t respond.

This wasn’t a boutique you frequented, so you took in the interior. The shop lined with glass cases with extravagant displays and impressive light structures cascading from the ceiling were accented all over with gold borders, though somehow the theme refrained from being tacky, and maintained a regal air – as expected of a place chosen by your husband. The far wall directly facing the door held the boutique’s insignia carved in gold against a white marble background, which of course was again bordered in gold.

Not a moment passed before a woman materialized before the two of you, bowing respectfully, expression reading deeply disconcerted. You could understand why, your husband wasn’t exactly an easy human being to deal with. You imagined he was a downright nightmare as a customer.

“Your expression is scaring the poor girl,” you hissed for only him to hear as the lady guided you to a glass counter, “could you look less like a soul sucking dementor?”

“I wouldn’t know what you mean.”

_Of course you wouldn’t._

“What can I help you with?” she asked politely, doing well to conceal her trembling tone.

“I want to speak to the designer,” Seto demanded, “you clearly don’t know why I’m here, and I certainly don’t have the time to waste explaining it all to you.”

She bowed again, obviously thrown into a frenzy by his words, as she disappeared into the back.

“Seto!” you hissed again, “what’s with you? You could have said that so much nicer!”

He grunted in response, dismissing your berating.

It wasn’t long before an older, well-dressed woman walked up to stand across from you; her dark hair parted down the middle, and pulled sleekly into a bun at the nape of her neck. She placed a binder in front of you, before reaching down, retrieving a tray holding a variety of rings – or rather wedding bands – and placing it next to the binder.

“Mr. Kaiba,” she began, “I compiled a collection of pre-existing wedding bands based on the sketches you had me do,” she explained, opening the binder, revealing pages upon pages of wedding band designs. “Hopefully at least one of these is to the future Mrs. Kaiba’s liking,” she smiled kindly at you.

Realization dawned on you, though you couldn’t be sure why he hadn’t just told you.

Looking at the hundreds of pages of plans and sketches, it was obvious he had really made an effort to construct the perfect wedding ring. He was strangely sentimental that way, getting held up on the most obscure details, though perhaps this particular situation warranted such behaviour.

You wondered if this obsession was born from the comment you had made about wanting to see him wearing a wedding ring you put on him.

You were still mildly surprised however, that he had considered asking for your opinion, given he had just bought the engagement ring and forced it on your finger.

Your hands still holding his arm over his suit sleeve, you gazed up at him, offering him an elated smile. He returned it with a stoic countenance, as expected.

You were advised to try on the matching sets of rings already available to get a feel for how you felt for each style physically wearing it on your finger.

Not that were too inclined to the concept possessiveness, but seeing a wedding ring on Seto’s ring finger afforded you a certain sense of exhilaration. It was almost as if he finally felt like he was officially _yours_.

You couldn’t help leaning into his arm, biting back an eye crinkling smile which inevitably grew into a small laugh.

He looked over at you with a softened expression, which you knew was the most affection you could draw from him, at least in this setting.

It wasn’t long however before your choices began to clash, the experience dissolving into passive aggression in classic fashion, as your relationship often did. You were both much too strongly opinionated to come to an understanding.

 

“No dragons!” you quickly interjected as all his preferred designs seemed to have dragon motifs in some form. He was clearly unimpressed by this assertion, but you wouldn’t waiver. You were only surprised now that he hadn’t stuck a giant dragon shaped rock on the engagement ring. “I’m sorry Seto, just, stick to something understated and charming.”

“Is that what you want?” he asked sternly, blue eyes boring into you. He was obviously brooding.

“Yes.”

“Fine.”

Another moment passed before he grew attached to a platinum ring studded with four square sapphires, an elaborate knot stretching around the circumference of the ring.

“What part of that ring looks understated to you?” you asked rather sharply.

The designer behind the counter appeared mildly startled by the way you had addressed him.

“It’s my wedding band too,” he bit back, gritting his teeth. Obviously tired of your continued criticism of his choices, punctuated with your insistence that he should just match the one you would choose.

A fairly long while of continued discord ensued, before Seto lifted your left hand, shoving a ring on to your fourth finger next to your engagement ring.

“This one,” he insisted, sounding resolute.

It was a thin, white gold band studded with three rows of diamonds; two thin rows of pavéd diamonds, with a middle row of slightly larger diamonds. The edges of the ring were also lined with very small, finely cut diamonds.

It was breathtaking, you wouldn’t deny, it was just incredibly ostentatious despite its small size.

“Have every two diamonds punctuated with a blue one on the middle row like this,” Seto advised the designer, pointing to one of the designs on a page, “and have a matching one made.”

“Seto wait, this ring is…a lot,” you worded your reservation hesitantly. The ring had more diamonds than some of your necklaces – and you prided yourself on your collection of ridiculously excessive – borderline wasteful - necklaces.

“It’s your wedding ring, why hold back?” he questioned flatly.

You didn’t care to look at the equally incredible price tag you were certain it carried.

“Fine, let’s go with this,” you agreed after a moment’s thought. The more you looked at it the more you felt it suited both you and the engagement ring.

You watched the designer drawing up a few rough sketches for Seto’s ring. He picked a thicker band where the metal edges folded over, slightly concealing the three rows of small diamonds, the middle row of diamonds a dark navy. The metal border was held by four small, decorative, navy hued diamonds resembling nails hammered into the rim. You were quite fond of the design yourself.

Having finalized your decisions, and both your fingers measured, he reached for his wallet before hesitating in thought and turning to face you.

“What kind of jewellery do you like?” he asked abruptly.

“What?”

“Jewellery,” he repeated gruffly, “what do you like?”

“That’s like me asking you what kind of cars you like,” you shot back, only at a moment’s delay comprehending where this seemingly random inquiry was coming from. His expression grew cross. “Seto, I was really just asking,” you clarified, “you don’t need to – ”

You had already lost him as he stalked off to a distant glass case. You looked at the time on your watch before following after him.

You really needed to get back to work; though arguing with him when he grew to be this persistent would take you nowhere fast, so you played along.

Another twenty something minutes bought you a choker lined entirely with blue diamonds, smaller white diamonds surrounding each round blue one in a pavé setting.

He insisted you wear it out, so you did. As four o’clock drew closer, you were desperate to get back to the office to get some work done, and wondered how he so uncharacteristically had so much time on his hands after practically ditching or abandoning a business trip half way through.

Not that he had anything to worry; his company was doing incredibly well on the stock market, especially on the NYSE, though this had never been a reason for him to let up on the reigns before.

“Don’t you have to get back to work?” you finally asked as you both walked back to the car.

“I do,” he simply replied as he helped you into the car. Securing his seatbelt, in spite of his words, he turned the car in the opposite direction of either of your company buildings.

“Where are we going?”

“Lunch.”

“It’s almost four,” you countered.

“Have you had lunch?” he inquired blandly, a harsher tone underlining his words.

“No.”

“Then what’s your point?”

“Seto, I really appreciate – whatever this is that you’re doing – but I need to get back to the office,” you insisted.

“What I’m doing,” he clenched his jaw, “is trying to fix my wife’s health. I want children before I’m forty.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’re barely twenty nine.”

“At the rate you’re going,” he stopped mid-sentence.

“What?” you challenged, daring him to finish. It was obvious whatever he had to say wasn’t something that would have been received well by you, not that he was one to care.

“Nothing,” he growled, focusing on the road.

“Something about this is clearly upsetting you,” you observed, “tell me what it is.”

“It’s nothing,” he repeated, tone growing sterner.

You wouldn’t realize this was him struggling to voice his concern for your health, that he had grown exceedingly worried of, after returning to see you having grown to look sickly fatigued and rather worn over the week he had been away.

Lunch was a pleasant affair, though admittedly quiet, despite Seto’s attitude carrying in from the previous conversation having lifted. He asked you how the past week had been, and you had given him the same – almost mechanical – answers, and to your inquiry of his week, he had thoroughly explained all the dealings he’d had in New York and gone on to insist he had actually returned after properly tending to business, contrary to what you had believed.

…

It had hardly been three hours since Seto had dropped you off at work following lunch when he came storming back into your office.

You were returning to your office yourself when the doors swung open behind you, causing you to spin around, thoroughly startled by the unexpected intrusion, though you supposed intrusions were hardly ever expected.

“I’m taking you home,” he demanded, drawing you aggressively towards him, practically snatching you into his arms. One hand firmly placed on your back, the other wandering, his lips brushed roughly over yours, rolling over your cheek, your neck, before returning to meet your lips again, his unrestrained desire pouring over you. “I need to have you,” he confessed hoarsely.

Your thoughts were elsewhere, mind distractedly pondering how to articulate the question that had been burning in your mind since the unforeseen circumstance had without warning fallen on your lap hardly an hour ago.

“Seto,” you panted, interrupting his kiss, “Do you know how to hold a baby?”

“I didn’t realise that’s where you wanted this to go,” he husked, looking down at you with a suggestive smirk, before impatiently leaning into take your lips again.

“No,” you corrected, pulling back slightly, “I meant like – ” you bit your lip, looking over your shoulder. He followed your line of vision to the two carriers sitting on the plush chairs behind you.

He released you almost instantly, pushing past you to inspect them more closely.

You saw him hesitate for a moment as a small cackle sounded from one of them.

“Care to explain who’s they are?” he inquired in a rather harsh tone, peering in. “And why exactly it is you have them in your office?”

“My research and development director’s four month old twins, I really needed her on a flight for a business meeting and… her flight back got cancelled. Planes aren’t taking off from Incheon because of poor weather conditions and none of her usual baby sitters were available at such short notice,” you rambled in explanation, “and so her day sitter dropped them off here at the end of her shift and I don’t know what to do – Seto, I don’t even know how to hold one of those things. Please tell me you know how.”

“You’re not serious.”

“I am, I didn’t want to penalize her career because she was a mother in the workforce, that’s not an example I wanted to set,” you bit your lip apprehensively watching his expression worsen.

“How noble of you,” he growled, “Why doesn’t your company offer maternity leave?”

“We do, she chose to assume her position as director without taking the full time off.”

“I didn’t come home for this.”

There was something in his tone which conveyed a sense of his words being final.

“I’m sorry! I just don’t feel very easy handing them off to a maid, I mean look at them, they’re so tiny and squishy looking.” Your husband looked at you with incredulity at that remark. “I mean they seem happy enough, how bad can they possibly be?” you asked him innocently, wrapping your arms around his and pulling yourself against him.

“You can’t be serious,” he repeated, irritation spread thickly over his features, “they’re babies, they’re not – ” he massaged his forehead with one hand. “They don’t exactly work according to a schedule.”

You looked up at him pleadingly.

He sighed.

“Where’s your director’s husband?”

“She’s a single mother.”

He groaned in exasperation and unconcealed irritation.

“Just for tonight, please?”

“You want me to – no,” he firmly declared. “What do you take me for? I’m not looking after two irritable four month olds.”

“Seto,” you whined, “please, I’m begging you, I don’t know the first thing.”

“Not a chance in hell.”

“You want to be a father so bad,” you challenged, “is this what you’re going to be like?”

“They’re not mine.”

You exhaled sharply. “I only invest in things after seeing how well they perform in the field.”

“Are you threatening me with children as leverage?” There was contempt in his tone. “Also, technically speaking you’ve already invested in me as a husband.”

“As a husband, yes. As the father of my children, that remains to be seen.”

He observed you calculatingly for a moment.

“You’re insufferable,” he spat finally, blue eyes glaring daggers. He tried to crush you with his glare for a few more seconds before picking up the two car seat carriers and walking out of your office.

He still hadn’t answered your question on if he knew how to hold a baby. Trailing behind him with the bag your director had left you, you assumed that this meant he did.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So for reference, this takes place after the passing of a certain villain, so it's the end of spring. The legal trials are still going on in the background, though as it's of no consequence to the characters at this point, it won't be mentioned. 
> 
> For anyone wanting to see the wedding band Seto chose, it’s the one on the right, different colours. https://goo.gl/DxuDT6
> 
> As always, let me know what you think :)


	2. Insecurity

Standing in the elevator in front of him, the jarring contrast between your husband’s menacing expression and what he was currently holding on to was hysterical. Observing his reflection in the mirror walled elevator, the perfectly tailored navy suit, over his crisp white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, only stood to make odd combination even more fascinating, though also strangely, absurdly attractive.

You were caught in a disconcerting place between wanting to laugh and desperately needing to kiss him. You hung your head for moment, biting down hard on your lower lip feeling a fit of irrepressible giggles overcoming you.

“I missed the joke,” he snarled, utterly unamused. His voice was much lower and deeper than you were used to, which was saying a lot, and you quite literally melted.

Spinning around, you covered the distance between the two of you in one short stride to the side, your eyes flickering up to meet his from where they had been resting against his concealed chest. His blue eyes watched you silently, carefully calculating your next move.

Your hands followed a similar motion. Slipping under his blazer, you slowly, very slowly moved them up his chest, feeling through his dress shirt each of his well-defined muscles. You knew he could feel the extra pressure your fingers placed against him as you moved.

“It’s hardly fair what you’re doing when my hands are bound like this,” he criticized, though a faint smirk urged you to continue.

“That’s the point,” you retorted, pressing your palms against his pecs for a long second before you slid them around his neck, burying them in his hair. “I can do whatever I want with you,” you whispered, your breath breaking against his ear. You were confident that motion prickled his skin with goosebumps, though his expression remained unchanged.

 He could have easily set the carriers down as you had your bags, but he chose not to, his smirk growing at the implication as he watched you.

You couldn’t help yourself.

“Maybe you’re cut out for this father thing,” you remarked, parting your lips as you placed them against the skin of his neck; prickled as you had expected. That was oddly satisfying.

You heard him chuckle; that deep, dark, velvety laugh that echoed in his chest. You could feel the vibration against your lips.

“It’s been five minutes since you said you wanted to test me first,” he noted rather sarcastically, “besides, if you wanted me this badly, you should have found a babysitter for these two.”

His arrogance was also frustratingly attractive. Your lips still moving against his neck, a shudder broke through your spine.

You felt him turn his head as he roughly pressed a kiss against your ear over your curtain of hair. Encouraged by this in spite of how fleeting it had been, you raised yourself on the tips of your toes despite the five inch raise your high heels already afforded you. Locking eyes with his darkened blue ones for a moment as you tilted your head; you crushed your lips against his.  He moved his lips against yours in response. The lack of control he had in this situation forced the kiss to be less demanding and a touch messy.

“That’s enough,” he pulled away panting, “We’re almost here.”

“So what?” you questioned separating yourself from him, “if the security wanted to watch, there’s a camera right there. I hardly think they’d care.”

 

Perhaps it was your perception working against you, but it was again quite strange watching two infant car seats being secured into a sports car.

“Is that safe?” you inquired stepping into the car as Seto secured his seatbelt on the driver’s side.

“Why wouldn’t it be, I’m driving.”

_Right, stupid question._

If anything though, likely as a result of the affair in the elevator, his mood was considerably less sour and a great deal less tetchy.

“Thank you,” you offered sincerely, placing your hand over his right arm, as he sat to your left in the foreign sports car.

You were offered an ‘hmph’ in response, the tone still carrying disproval for the situation.

He spun the steering wheel with his right hand, left placed behind your seat as he looked over his shoulder, reversing the car in one fluid motion. The way he stepped on the accelerator as he flew out of the underground parking runway nearly stopped your heart. You knew he liked to burn the rubber but had felt that the situation would have dissuaded him from his usual habits.

“Is this what you call careful?” you hissed, the hand you had placed over his upper arm earlier tightening around the sleeve of his suit jacket.

“I’d rather get home before either of those two’s tempers flare, because believe it or not, you’ll crack before I do when and if that happens.”

And crack you did. The first speed bump and the ear splitting cries carrying with them that nerve grating, shrill sharpness erupted, and they were inconsolable. It was like a hundred new born kittens mewling, only, the volume was amplified, the frequency intensified.

“Seto, what do we do?” you asked your husband in distress, your composure miserably unravelling, your head sharply whipping around to cast your gaze over the back seat.

“Relax,” he growled.

“They’re crying, we can’t just – do you think they’re okay? Should we look?”

“They’re fine, they’re babies, they cry,” he dismissed, unfazed, though his jaw was clenched.

The relentless cries which persisted the entire drive felt much too disconcerting to ignore. You wouldn’t like to admit, but it was driving you to temporary insanity. You drew the navy blue fabric of your short, off-shoulder dress spangled with miniature gold blossoms into your fists, attempting desperately to disregard it. It was beyond you how he was so thoroughly composed.

Arriving at the mansion, as Seto unclasped the two carriers, retrieving them from the car, the wailing continued. You could feel your ears ring.

You wondered if it was too late to admit how short sighted you had been accepting the task.

“With regards to your earlier comment on their temperament,” Seto sneered, closing the back door with his foot, hands occupied, “I hope this answers your question.”

“What would you like to hear?” you bit back, pride refusing to concede. Ignoring your jibe, he walked past you towards the garage door.

“Get the door,” he ordered, reaching it.

 

“Do we have a crib of some sort?” you questioned following after him as you ascended the stairs.

“What use would I possibly have had for a crib?”

“A simple no would have sufficed.”

“No,” he firmly stressed, contemptuously.

“Alright my love,” you returned his tone which carried friction, “where do we suggest we keep them?”

“The bed, obviously,” he noted flatly, a manner which implied you were a moron for ever having posed the question. The implication was ever so subtle yet unmistakable, and exceedingly nerve grating.

“Our bed? –”

“And don’t call me that,” he added snappishly, “unless you’re being serious.”

You elected to stay silent after that flare-up.

Reaching your bedroom, you held the door open for him.

He hadn’t confirmed his intentions to have the twins sleep on the bed you shared, but felt it was now obvious.

As he placed the two carriers by the foot of the nightstand, you watched him worriedly from a few steps back, the reddened cheeks of the crying infants who were hardly past being newborns alarming you greatly.

“Are they supposed to look like that?” you questioned apprehensively. He wouldn’t respond, leaning in, unclasping the safety strap stretched across each of them, before lithely wrapping his fingers around one, laying the distressed infant against his arm.

There was a sense of unfamiliarity in his motions, though he didn’t appear uncomfortable.

“Pick up the other one,” he ordered you. Your eyes flicked up to meet his, before falling over the distraught infant swaddled in pink. You faintly shook your head. “Stop being a child and pick her up,” he repeated, his irritation growing, as he held the baby in his arms against his chest, gently swaying her. You watched how his large hand supported her head as he did.

The image was stirring, inspiring emotions of contentment and in a certain sense satisfaction. The child unexpectedly appeared to belong in his arms, contrary to what you had anticipated. His personality which roused deep, soul mortifying fear in people had led you to believe he wouldn’t be suitable as a father, and while his intimidating aura persisted, you noticed the threatening spark in his eyes had softened. 

“What are you waiting for?” he growled, watching your hesitation.

“I’ve never held one before.”

“Just watch what I do and don’t drop it,” he hissed, cautious not to stimulate the infant in his arms.

The continuing cry of the other was also incredibly addling and nerve wracking.

You observed in awe as the wails of the toddler in Seto’s arms were reduced to a snivelling.

By this point he had no doubt realized that you were adamant in not touching the baby.

“You’re really good at this,” you meekly remarked, eyes following him as he placed her in the centre of the bed.

He reached for the younger twin – if you had remembered correctly – lifting her against his chest.

Suddenly, a truly frightening notion you had never thought to entertain before dawned on you, an enveloping coldness seeping in. A distant part of you was plagued with guilt as you considered it, but the realization that the task of making the most powerful man in the country a father fell upon you was truly daunting and by every stretch horrifying. It didn’t feel as if it would be a personal affair between the two of you, in fact, you knew it wouldn’t be; the whole nation would be watching.

“What’s bothering you?” Seto inquired suddenly, though he had actually been observing your uncomfortably contorting expressions for a while, you had simply failed to notice.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I want that habit of lying to me gone.”

You bit your lip, unable to dispute him. He didn’t, at least in that moment, insist on pursuing it.

Instead, he inquired what was in the bag that was left to you by the baby sitter, before stalking out of the room without explanation having heard your response.

“Watch them for a moment,” he had advised in his wake.

You stood over the bedside, unsurely watching over the mollified infants, wriggling nonchalantly. You heaved a heavy sigh, suddenly many – rather selfish - concerns manifesting in your mind.

The bedroom door opened softly, a group of maids pouring in; some gathering around the bed, two carefully lifting up the quietened twins, their experience evident, while another reached for the supply bag, the remaining few having filed in with a collection of pillows in their arms.

You were explained by one of the maids that they were advised to check the babies’ diapers and prepare their formula. You conveyed your acknowledgement with a stiff nod of the head, while absentmindedly watching the other maids laying out the pillows they had carried in around the centre of the bed, forming a barricade surrounding where the twins would lie.

Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps trauma that carried your feet towards the bathroom to supervise the maids who had disappeared with the infants behind the door left ajar.

As they were returned to bed swaddled in fresh blankets, you dismissed the group of maids, requesting that they leave the bottles of formula on the nightstand.

A few moments idled in silence before Seto appeared by your side, demanding to know why you had released the maids before the twins were fed. You weren’t entirely sure yourself.

“How do you know if they’re hungry?” you asked.

“How do you know if they are feeling anything?” he retorted taciturnly, “they cry.”

“Well, they’re not crying…”

“No.”

“So do we wait?”

“What do you think?” he snapped, before marching off to the closet.

 

You couldn’t recall when your consciousness had slipped, or when you had even laid down. Your weary mind finding a degree of ease in your husband’s presence, you hadn’t caught yourself drifting to sleep.

“Wake up, you can’t fall asleep like this,” you heard Seto’s voice reach you through your state of slumber.   You turned over bleary eyed to find him sitting beside you on the edge of the bed, changed into a casual white shirt and dark pants. “Remove your makeup, change. You need to eat; I had the chef prepare dinner.”

“I really rather not,” you declared incoherently, curving into his lap, wrapping your arms around him.

“What am I supposed to do if you’re going to act like this too?” There was a hint of tenderness in his tone, though the overwhelming roughness of his voice easily concealed it. “Get up,” he demanded, forcefully removing your arms from around him as he lifted you to sit.

Your head hung defiantly, adamant to fall back asleep. He growled your name under his breath.

“We can’t leave the babies here,” you mumbled, your eyelids continuing to weigh heavily closed.

“I’ll have the maids watch them.”

“I don’t like that idea.”

“What do you suggest?” he questioned through gritted teeth, “that I carry them to the dining room?”

The compromise closely resembled the remark he had made sarcastically, with two maids holding the infants beside you as the two of you had dinner.

This being a compromise, neither of you were happy, you at the presence of maids, him at having two infants susceptible to violent paroxysms of crying being held over his shoulder.

He wouldn’t comment, though from his expression, it was obvious that this was not how he had wanted to spend his first night back home.

Mid-way through dinner the dreaded came to pass, with one twin bursting into tears for no apparent reason, drawing a similar reaction from her sibling.

Seto’s grip over his fork and knife tightened, his eyes closing pointedly in reaction, expression visibly darkening.

The maids quickly motioned to remove the hysterical infants from the room, but you wouldn’t allow it. Another few minutes were wasted in vain with the two maids failing miserably to console them.

You heard the dropping of silverware against porcelain, and a chair being harshly drawn against marble.

“Give them here.” Striding over, Seto removed the younger twin from the maid’s arms, holding her against his chest again. “Hold the other one,” he commanded, one hand over the baby’s head, the other gently stroking her back as he moved back and forth.

You stood up agitated, thrown into a frenzy under his irritated glare. 

You uncertainly wrapped your hands around the baby’s small form, closely imitating how your husband held the infant. Her crying however, unlike of the twin in Seto’s arms, you felt only intensified.

“You’re holding it wrong,” he chided and you just about dropped the baby out of nervousness, before hastily handing her back to the maid. “You’re hopeless,” he snarled.

That stung, that stung deep, especially as you had already grown sensitive to the issue prior to him commenting on your inexperience.

…

Separated from your husband by the barrier of pillows surrounding the infants, the sleep which had pooled in your eyelids drowned your mind, claiming you the moment your head met the pillow. As you drifted in and out of sleep, you could feel the gold light pouring from the lamp on your nightstand against your eyelids, and the soft, intermittent cries of a young child in the distance, though imagined or real, you couldn’t tell.

You stirred awake in a cold sweat. The thin straps of your black nightgown had slipped past your shoulder, though you wouldn’t notice.

“Seto!” you called his name as you often did escaping a nightmare, regardless of whether he was beside you. Your eyes stared into a dimly lit, empty room; you couldn’t feel his presence next to you.

“I’m here,” his hoarse voice reached you a moment later, his hands extending to rest over your shoulder from behind you.

Turning to face him on the far edge of the bed, while he had obviously woken up to your voice calling him, it appeared as if he had hardly found any sleep that night, a dark hue colouring his under eyes.

Eyes drifting to the bundle nestled against his chest, realization of the situation dawned on you, the periodic cries of an infant you had heard in your sleep making sense.

You felt you heard overstepped your boundaries in your request, placing an unwelcome burden on him. You were still fairly surprised that he had indulged your request.

“I’m here,” he repeated stroking your hair with his outstretched arms, eyelids weighing with exhaustion, “go back to sleep.”

Except you couldn’t, your side of the bed felt extremely cold; animated visions from your nightmare vividly replaying in your mind, a paralyzing sense of fear enveloped you. The feeling one gets when one’s consciousness hasn’t completely recovered from the nightmare, haunting you, frightening you ever so softly, like the memory of an eerie lullaby you can’t forget.

Your heavy breathing calming, you slid out of the sheets, making light steps around the bed, slipping into the narrow strip of space next to your husband on the edge of his side of the bed.

“You’re going to fall off, what the hell are you doing?” he berated you.

“Did you get any sleep?” you asked a moment later, apologetically.

“Hardly.”

“They were up the whole night?” you gasped.

“More or less.”

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, as he slid an arm under you to prevent you from falling off the edge.

“The things I do for you,” he bit back a growl.

“I owe you one.”

“In our relationship, why would you owe me anything?” he husked.

Perhaps he held you closer than you did him.

Leaning into him, you absentmindedly played with the buttons of his shirt.

“You should have woken me up.”

You wouldn’t discover he had desperately attempted to do the exact opposite, having been informed by your secretary your awful sleeping habits over the past week.

“You wouldn’t have been of any help.”

You could feel the wound being harrowed again by those words, a fine needle drawing across open flesh.

Misspoken words giving life to new misunderstandings. 

 

 

You were woken again by stirring under you. Your cheek pressed against his chest, you opened your eyes to find one of the infants lying on him next to you, a steady hand falling rhythmically against her back over and over again.

You drew in a breath sharply through your nose.

“I’m so sorry,” you spoke softly, tilting your head up to meet his eyes.

A growl from low in his throat was his response.

 

You had meant to wake up, but sleep wouldn’t release you, and listening to the cadenced rise and fall of your husband’s chest, you fell back into darkness within seconds.

 

The following morning was horrendous, a downright gong show with the twins waking up – as if they had actually slept – at the crack of dawn, and crying relentlessly for you assumed their mother. Nothing seemed to appease them, though you observed Seto managed to pacify them to a certain degree.

“You have the patience of a saint,” you told your husband as he watched with perfect composure the maids unsuccessfully attempting to feed the two their milk through the fit of wails.

“Can’t say I’ve ever heard that before,” he gruffly declared, faintly smirking.

“No, really, I was woken like twice and I’m annoyed, you just – you didn’t sleep, and you still haven’t murdered someone, you’re a saint.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“If you’ll murder someone?”

He hummed in response as he downed a large mug of black coffee. “It’s only morning.”

 


	3. Cold Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, this chapter basically goes to show with jarring contrast the different points of their lives each person is in, and the discord that comes from wanting different things as a result.
> 
> *Edit: I don't think y'all realize the amount of fluff this is building up to, and the confusion is literally giving me life XD

“Should we just not have children?” you asked Seto leaning against the car window in dejection, deeply dispirited.

In the absence of the twins, as you reflected on your time spent with them, it led you to revaluate many things.

“What?” His voice snapped dangerously.

“You saw how awful I was at caring for them.” _So much so that you commented on it numerous times._

“It’ll be different when it’s ours.” His words were resolute, and carried in them the implication that they were final.

“I don’t think I want to.”

“I don’t know what gave you the impression that this was a choice,” he began sonorously; “there are not a lot of things that I will ask of you against your wishes, but unless the concern is your health, we will have children. And your health I will begin to handle personally going forward. Besides, it was you that kept insisting Kodama needed an heir of the blood. I will not have Kaiba Corp. passed on to anyone else either.”

There was no room for negotiation; it was obvious you wouldn’t dissuade him from his intentions.

“All I have to do is not sleep with you or work myself to infertility,” you declared out of spite.

“Will you not conduct yourself like an actual adult?” His voice thundered, echoing through the closed space of the car.

“Seto, I wasn’t serious,” you immediately recoiled.

“Don’t even joke about – how do you run a corporation with a head like that?” 

“Oh! So now you’re even insulting my professional credentials? Why don’t you start talking again about how much of an awful wife I am? Throw in how terrible I’m in bed too while you’re at it. We are both thinking it,” you matched his pitch, your tone piping, stifling a sob.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Why the hell are you so – are you crying?” he growled, looking over at you as a red light brought morning traffic to a standstill once again, mild distress showing through his composed scowl.

“Because you’re a terrible husband and I don’t know if I want – never mind,” you sighed defeated, not affording him the opportunity to retort, you wore your dark sunglasses as you tore away your seatbelt, before throwing the door open and stepping out into lanes of traffic that had come to a halt.

Quickly weaving through the stopped vehicles, you stepped onto the sidewalk, disappearing in the morning rush, praying to not be recognized.

…

The day seemed to have ended as soon as it had begun; only, your memory retained each excruciating and unsavory detail.

Late evening found you at the conclusion of an endorsement shoot for a designer clothing label. Offering the production staff polite bows as you gathered your belongings; you were approached by a young, lighting crew member, her expression very vaguely distressed.

“Mr. Kaiba would like you to know that he’s here to pick you up,” she informed you timidly, before immediately making herself scarce from your presence.

You could feel a shudder course down your spin as the events of that morning resurfaced.

Approaching the entrance with heavy apprehension, you recognized the figure dressed in a tailored white suit; your eyes met piercing blue ones. Remnants of the ire or rather his wrath you had inspired earlier that day faintly hung on to his features.

You shrunk discernably as he wrapped his arm around your waist, guiding you to his car.

“Are we back to this?” he heaved an exasperated sigh, voice falling to a lower register. Your eyes closed tightly, wincing at the remark. He sighed again.

The drive saw a hostile silence stretched between the two of you, the cold air pushing you apart quite conspicuously and painfully. Contrasting this aggression however, Seto reached his left hand, placing it over your thigh exposed under your short, jade dress, uncertainly stroking it occasionally, expression warped uncomfortably.

His touch roused a wave of goosebumps across your skin, you were sure he noticed.

“I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you this morning,” he confessed, eyes pinned on the road. You remained silent. “I didn’t realize my words would have such an effect on you.”

“But your sentiments about children remain unchanged?”

“Regrettably.”

“I see.”

“I wouldn’t have –” he begun to say though he faltered, his brows furrowing in thought, discomfort washing over his features where his scowl had previously been; “I wouldn’t have even entertained the mere thought of what I did last night had the request come from anyone else, even Mokuba. You should know me better. My intention wasn’t to insinuate that you would make a –- bad mother for our children. You must know I hold you in a higher regard than that.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You called me a terrible husband,” he continued, tone like sandpaper against rough wood, and you quite literally flinched. “By your reasoning, did you also mean that?” You held your tongue for reasons beyond you. “I see.”

…

Dinner afforded you painful clarity on what Seto had meant by handling your health personally.

“That’s two hundred and eighty calories,” he informed you as he placed a plate of mushroom lasagna rolls in front of you, “I want it finished.”

“You’re not serious, I’ll break out from all that dairy, and that’s all carbs and -” you turned over one of the layers with your fork, lip turned up sulkily, “it’s so…”

“Eat it, a nutritionist designed the meals,” he demanded interjecting, irritation so present that it scraped against your ears.

You never received this with any seriousness, reluctantly digging your fork in, only learning the extent of his resolve as he refused to allow you to leave the dining table until your plate was completely empty.

“You’re not my father; I hope you’re not planning to do this every night,” you groused.

“Every meal,” he corrected.

“Stop being so overbearing,” your tone was reedy, “you’re suffocating!”

“What did you say?”

“You’re so controlling – I don’t want to have children, and not just because of last night or what you said. Losing our first was so mentally devastating to me Seto, and physically I felt it for months! I don’t want to -” you came undone, voice betraying you as it cracked, tears that you didn’t know had welled flooding your cheeks. “I don’t want to fail – try to find out and fail that I can’t do that for you, that’s so much worse than feeling like I had a choice, like I had some sort of control over my decision, you know?”

He watched you unfeelingly. If his expression had moved, it was as he clenched his jaw, eyes losing colour as you felt him grow taciturn and cold to you.

…

The air was still skin prickling cold. Silently lying side by side on the bed, you could hear the hand of a distant clock or watch crawl. Neither of you would say a word, eyes blankly watching the moonlight funnelling through open curtains and floating above you.

The air was so thick you could cut it with a knife, the air so visible that you could see it in the moonlight.

You turned abruptly, lifting yourself against his shoulder, fingers closing into a fist around his shirt. It was familiar, and comfortable. You felt him stiffen at the unexpected motion, before shifting his shoulder as he adjusted himself under you as if to fit you. His one arm folded protectively under you.

“I plan to publicize our marriage the next Monday following this White Ball this Friday.”

His words battered you like an unpredicted rainstorm against an open field.

“You – what?” you mumbled uncertainly, pulling your face away from the crook of his neck. “That’s like four days from now, so soon?”

“When had you expected it to be announced? It’s been enough time since the engagement announcement.”

“I don’t know,” you hesitated, voice trembling ever so slightly, “four – maybe five years from now?”

His silence was somewhat frightening, that distance ticking of a clock filling the space.

“Are you ashamed of this marriage?” His words tasted bitter as they brushed against your lips with his breath; blue eyes watching you intensely.

“Of course not, it’s not like our relationship is a secret.”

“Does marriage still feel too final?”

You couldn’t fathom being with another man, it wasn’t an exit strategy you were banking on.

“No, I just – I guess, wanted to be a bride for once in my life. I couldn’t count how many wedding dresses I’ve worn in my life, but not one of them were mine.”

“You want a wedding? Is that what this is about?” The roughness in his tone was scathing somehow, though you couldn’t comprehend if the question carried disdain or derision, or if it was an inquiry of genuine curiosity reaching for clarification. “If you want a wedding, that’s hardly a concern.”

“Yes, and no,” you offered ambiguously, his eyebrow cocking up in response. “I will lose market value in the industry the moment it is known I’m married to you – not you particularly, just being married.”

He scoffed, anger painting itself over his creasing face.

“By that logic so will I, a CEO’s value isn’t dependent upon marital status, it’s based on how well his or her company does. That’s all that matters. In fact, this marriage should bolster the stability of both our corporations, as intended.”

“It’s a merger without the hostility, I get it, but I’m also an actress Seto, I won’t be able to play the same roles anymore,” you argued.

“I can make sure that never happens. Is that all?” Your silence spoke volumes; your hesitance, your reluctance, all crashing like waves against his growing disproval. “Clearly I’ve invested myself much more deeply into this marriage than you,” he declared harshly, continuing to elaborate without affording you the opportunity to voice your outrage, “you don’t wish for this marriage to be known, you don’t wish to bear my children, you misunderstand my intentions at every turn,” your grip on him tightened as the assault raged on, “everything that happened to you over these past months – despite what you may believe – has also affected me severely. We were doing so well, I can’t understand anymore, what are your scruples about our relationship?”

Your silence enabled the axe to fall like a guillotine on your relationship.

“I’m going to work, I’ll be in the study if you need me,” he declared in a strained tone, swiftly nudging you off and sitting up.

You reflexively shot up alongside him as if wined clockwork, fingers clasping around his upper arm, “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” he demanded to know. You didn’t know. “You don’t know,” he repeated your thoughts flawlessly.

“For a great number of things, yesterday - I won’t pretend to be blind to your needs,” you paused, gathering your composure which had fizzled into a quavering voice. You tugged on his arm, your back meeting the sheets as you pulled him to hover over you, though you knew too well that he had wilfully complied to be in that position even if he did appear lifeless the way his gaze poured over you. “You can have me today,” you offered, attempting your best to salvage your tone from its sombre state and sound sincere and possibly even seductive.

“Not tonight,” he refused you huskily, pulling away.

You sprung back up after him, arms wrapping around him from behind, face leaning against his broad shoulder.

“Don’t go, I missed you.”

He inhaled sharply, the rush of air echoing softly through the room.

“I would use the space to evaluate what you hope to accomplish through this relationship; if not as my significant other, as a lifelong business partner.”

And with that, he disappeared. When the words had sunk in, he was gone, vanishing beyond the closed door.

 

You could feel a panic attack climbing your throat, air disappearing from your chest as if a vacuum was draining it through a lung punctured by the cutting pain pulsating through your thoracic cavity.  

Bare feet led you to a locked door. You supposed that door signified many things in that moment.

“Seto, it’s me, open the door,” you implored desperately, knuckles rapping against aged oak. You knocked again, once, twice, thrice, and then once again after that; the heavy door remaining as it was.

You sunk against the cold wall, drawing your knees to your chest. You could feel the chill of the stone seeping through your nightgown.

 

It was now four in the morning. You knew it was four because a remotely chiming grandfather’s clock had told you so. Your lucid dreams were disturbing.

There was something folding under your folded arms and legs. “What are you doing sleeping here until four in the morning?” a hoarse voice questioned beyond your bleary eyes.

“Seto?”

“You’re going to come down with pneumonia,” he barked. You could feel the cold stone peeling away from you.

“I missed you,” you murmured, nestling against a warmth which rose and fell, before slipping back into darkness.

 

The hushed rush of air as a door closed softly roused you to an empty bed.

Your husband was gone, though the clock read early five. You wondered if you had perhaps underestimated how deep that falling axe had severed the strings binding your relationship; he only ever left without a word that way when he was disappointed in you.

…

Walking through Kaiba Corp’s lobby, you wondered perhaps if a blazer would have been a sensible choice as the many eyes fell over your exposed shoulders in the corseted, sweet-heart neckline, short denim dress with faded Swiss dots all over.   

Sunglasses hiding your face, glossed strings of a brown paper bag strung through your fingers, the chill of your bubble tea numbing the fingers of your other hand, the wedged heels of your platform sandals which tied in a white silken bow at your ankles, fell dully against the tile.

At the end of the long hallway leading to his office, you could see your husband standing in front of his secretaries’ desk. Early afternoon sunlight poured through the wall of glass to your left as you walked, the carpet muffling your footsteps.

Careful not to stain his white suit with the yellow slush of your tea, you clasped your hands around him from behind, intending to draw a reaction from him, hoping it would rekindle in him some affection towards you.

You were acquainted enough with his secretaries to behave this way in their presence.

“You left without waking me this morning, are you still mad at me?” you questioned adoration heavy in your tone, your head tilting though he could not see. Stiffening under your embrace, you comprehended that it took a moment for him to realize it was you.

You pulled away as he turned to you, mild horror gathering on your face as you realized that you did not recognize the two women sitting behind the secretary’s desk, though more so as Seto’s stance afforded you view of Kaoru, standing alongside a gentleman you again, did not recognize.

Words evaded you as you found yourself bound in such a degree of disconcertion.

“It’s good you’re here, I was about to send a car for you,” he declared unperturbed by your very public display of affection in the presence of his business associates; passing the pen in his hands to the young man you were not acquainted with.  

“For what?” you questioned, though the voice which you heard next was not your husband’s.

“I’d like to offer my sincerest congratulations,” Kaoru interjected, “I wish you all the health.”

His attitude was uncharacteristically dim, disturbingly contrasting his words of well wishes, though for what you were congratulated on was a mystery.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Kaiba you dog, couldn’t even wait till you married her could you?” the young gentlemen spoke with a foreign accent, amusement evident in his tone, “I always knew you would find yourself a pretty young wife, but this I hadn’t seen coming,” he laughed. “Congratulations indeed. You being a father,” you could feel electricity in your tightened chest, “this I got to see.”

“Watch it Wei,” Seto snarled, though he made no effort to correct them.

You watching with a certain sense of mortification, contemplating whether it was appropriate for you to intervene, as you saw the situation snowball out of hand, until you were left wondering when it had become too late to weave yourself out of the empty congratulations and established misunderstandings.

You watched the supposedly Chinese man take his leave, a severe lack of formalities on both parties at his departure, shortly followed by Kaoru.

“I’m taking you to the gynecologist, your secretary confirmed you didn’t have any schedules for the afternoon,” Seto finally answered your question, plucking the bubble tea out of your hands, bringing the straw to his lips.

“Seto no –- there’s red lipstick …on… there –”

“That gave me a cavity, what flavour was that?” his expression twisted as he continued to scan what appeared to be a spreadsheet, fingers still grasping the tall cup.

“Mango-passionfruit, there was extra honey in there though.”

“How do you stomach this garbage?” he spat.

“The same way you stomach raw coffee beans.” That earned you a rather animated smirk.

“Why are you taking me to the gynecologist? And why did you not correct those two?” you inquired as you followed after him into his office. “Also, what happened to your secretaries?”

“Why did you think I was mad at you?” he questioned flatly, completely disregarding your string of questions as he reached his desk.

“Because you left without talking to me this morning, and last night -”

“I didn’t wake you because you hardly got any proper sleep last night.” His response was clipped, and lacked any mention of the previous night's discord. You thought it was perhaps better this way.

“You didn’t sleep properly either.”

“My health isn’t falling apart at the seams.”

_Well played._

“Who was that man earlier?”

“Wei Xuan? The second son of the Wei family, I thought you were acquainted.”

“We haven’t been. Why did you not correct them?”

“About?”

“The pregnancy – I’m obviously not.”

“They’ll realize eventually,” he stated blandly.

“Or, they’ll think I had a miscarriage, that’s worse Seto!”

“I’ll look into it having it sorted,” he finally conceded distractedly.

You placed the brown paper bag on the coffee table, unpacking its contents. You hoped this would be conveyed as a white flag on your part, for the events of last night, as well as what you were about to lay on him.

“I brought lunch. I stopped by that French place you like.” He looked up at you from the documents his eyes were pouring over, before dropping them carelessly and walking over to you. “I spoke to the director of Kingdoms of the Sun…about the role of Empress Shi I was offered.”

His blue eyes immediately grew sharp.

“The one that would require you to be in China for years?” his voice fell low as it grew authoritative; “I thought you said we would discuss that.”

“I didn’t see a need to,” you began to say, pulling out a thickly bound script from your hand bag, “It was a career making, or rather in my case career defining role they said, but this is why I said we should hold off on the –”

He laughed cynically, sitting across from you.

“Was I really that suffocating?”


	4. A Marriage Of Convenience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is slightly shorter than they usually are, but I hope you enjoy anyway. After the next one, or perhaps the next couple, I won't be writing for a while, so I hope you enjoy the double update, though this one is more of a transition chapter.

“What?”

You couldn’t understand his question.

“This explains why you wanted to postpone the announcement for another five years.”

“Actually that was short sighted thinking on my part, five years is a bit –”

“Short? You want even longer?” he snarled, “Why don’t we just never announce it.”

“Seto!” you cried accusingly, “I was going to say it was selfish, asking you for five years –”

“This drama would take much longer than that to film.”

You nodded in agreement.

“Seven to nine years they said. They said it could define a career, so I asked them to give it to an actress that needed a career made and defined, because I didn’t,” you clarified, handing him the script you had retrieved from your bag to him. “I didn't see the need to discuss it with you because I turned it down.I accepted this instead.”

The blaze in his blue eyes calmed as he read the title.

“ _When the wind blows_?” he read the Korean title, the edge in his voice smoothening.

You bit your lip, “it’s a high school drama.”

The words just hung there. His eyes drifted to meet yours, reading you over and over. Your breathing shallowed before catching in your throat.

“It’s a what?”

“A high school drama.”

“And you’re playing a student?” You nodded, eyes cast towards your fingers laced in apprehension. “Absolutely not.”

“I wasn’t asking for permission. I can’t keep sacrificing my career for this marriage. I also can’t play a high school student after the marriage becoming public knowledge,” you spoke rapidly, wanting to convey your thought process entirely before you were either interrupted by him, or by your own inhibitions. “This is the last time I’ll ever get to play a role like this, the first time since the one where I played a supporting role back during my debut years –”

“For someone not asking for permission, you’re giving me a long explanation,” he interjected as you had expected, disproval manifesting itself in a glower on his face. “You’re my wife, and therefore by extension a representation of me, as I am to you, consider how you playing a frivolous school girl will reflect on me.”

“Frivolous? There’s nothing frivolousabout this character, how dare – you know what, maybe it will _help_ your fear inspiring image.”

“My image doesn’t need help. Pick a different script, _any other_ script.”

“Like Kingdoms of the Sun? ...Because if you don’t allow me to do this project, I will do that, this is me compromising because I don’t want to be away from you,” you argued, though your voice remained composed.

His defenses seem to waiver at that response.

“You gave up the trilogy because of _that_?” There was a trace of contentment on his face.

“I chose our marriage over my career, like you keep doing with your company, because I was grateful. I wasn’t asking for permission but it would make me feel better if you supported me with this drama. I’ll fly to Seoul and come back by the end of the day after filming if it makes you feel better,” you offered, stepping around the coffee table to sit next to him, reaching for his hand. “We can announce our marriage after this premiers at the end of the summer. I may even take a break from the industry, we’ll see.”

Blue eyes fell over you in consideration.

“Fine,” he conceded, draping an arm heavily over your back.

“You may not believe this, but I am proud to have you as my husband. I’m sorry I said you were terrible, I didn’t mean that. I really just…wasn’t – isn’t ready to have children –”

“You’re too young to have children,” he agreed interjecting, perplexing you.

“Then why do you keep, you know, you’re even taking me to the gynecologist today you said, what’s with that?”

“Because when the time comes, I’ll make sure you’re ready, whether that’s five or ten years from now.”

“Must have saved a country,” you mumbled to yourself, relief washing over you as you reached for a fork.

…

“You were right about Sasaki,” Seto admitted on your way back from the gynecologist, who hadn’t seen any serious concerns that could complicate a future pregnancy – at least anatomically – so long as your current, temporarily poor state of health is improved.

“Who?”

“My temporary secretary.”

“The blonde one? What did she do?” you inquired, your interest piqued.

“Bitch finally snapped,” he stated vaguely.

“Let me guess, she tried to get in your pants,” you laughed, not meaning it with any seriousness.

“Yes,” he firmly declared, catching you off guard, continuing on to elaborate, “she –”

“Please, I don’t need to know, I really rather not know how my husband’s secretary tried to seduce him. At least that way no heads will roll.”

He smirked, placing a hand over your thigh.

“So – I’m assuming the one is her replacement, what happened to your other one?”

“Both my permanent ones are on leave. The ones you saw today are temporary; I pulled them from the secretariat department.  You seem to have a good eye for people –”

“Seto I manage talent for a living, people are all I deal with,” you reminded him.

“I’m aware. Sit in for the interviews with me.”

It was your turn to smirk, “you want your wife to sit in with you to drive the crazy away, how sly of you. I like it.”

“Aren’t you perceptive,” he commended, though sarcasm was heavy in his tone.

“Speaking of psychotic women,” you began, deterring from the topic, “I found your cufflinks.”

“Which ones?” he inquired gruffly, glancing your way for a moment.

“The ones you said Mokuba bought you, at least I think it’s them, along with one of your shirts and a couple of ties you probably haven’t noticed had disappeared. They were found among Saiko’s belongings in the servant’s quarters.”

“Saiko who?”

“The crazy maid who tried to drown me, I had her things searched before being removed from the mansion.”

He hummed low in his throat, expression creasing at the revelation.

“Decent hired help is hard to find apparently,” he growled.

 …

Sitting on the far side of Seto’s office, settled into the grey sofa facing him, you were thoroughly engrossed in your work, pouring over your laptop. Absentmindedly munching on a chocolate croissant as your eyes intently flew across the many lines of the report before you, the world could collapse or stop on its axis outside and you would be none the wiser.  

The approaching footsteps fell on deaf ears.

“I’m going to a meeting,” Seto began to say, tearing you from your thoughts, before narrowing his eyes with unrestrained scrutiny. He reached forward without warning, leaning down, roughly rolling his thumb over the side of your cheek. A small smile tugged at his lips before his eyes fell over your crossed legs, your dress ridden up perhaps a little too high on your thighs. Swiftly slipping his suit jacket off, he motioned to drape it over your legs. “How did you manage to get chocolate on there?” he questioned as if speaking to a child, tossing his jacket over the backrest of the sofa, and reaching for a tissue on the coffee table instead.

 Your own eyes fell over where his eyes had been resting to see smears of chocolate across your thighs, and over the crook of your knee. Flakes of pastry had also rained down over your legs. Slightly embarrassed, you quickly dusted yourself off; careful to catch the flakes in your other hand so they wouldn’t ruin the plush carpet.

He sighed as he sat beside you, though it didn’t sound tired or irritated. You wondered if you had imagined the hint of contentment in the tone.

Lifting his hand against your face, he brushed the tissue over the corner of your mouth, before reaching for the stains on your leg.

“How could I expect you to raise a child when you’re still a child,” he remarked as he did.

Your eyes fell over the side of his face as he was leaned in front of you, silky brown hair falling forward; his brilliant blue eyes visible through the chocolate locks.

You felt the desperate urge to kiss him, so leaning towards him as if in a trance, tilting your face slightly, you placed a fleeting kiss against his lips, then immediately pulling away, eyes flicking towards the ceiling and anywhere that wasn’t at him, lips folded in together. You missed the rare smile that found his lips for a brief instant.

“I’m locking my office door while I’m away,” he informed, draping his jacket over your lap.

“How long are you gone for?” you asked, but you noticed his attention stray, sharp eyes finding your computer screen.

“Is this accurate?” he inquired, wholly absorbed in the content of the report splayed across your screen, as well as the detailed diagrams and blueprints on the presentation behind it.

“What?” you requested clarification, unsure which of the many things he was referring to.

Perhaps it wasn’t the cleverest idea to have your corporation’s newest development and all the classified information involving that technology in plain view of the competing corporation’s CEO, even if he was your husband.

“Has Kodama actually managed to successfully compact the brain’s electro-chemical signal converter processor to fit into a helmet without distorting perception or interfering neuron- synapses function?”

“Uhm, if the user follows the strict safety guidelines they should be fine as far tests prove. I made some small changes to the transition process to ease a player in mentally,” you answered hesitantly, wondering if you were affording him too much information, to which the obvious answer from a competitive perspective was yes, yes you were.

“That’s very impressive,” he admitted.

“Hardly. We spent all this time on the actual technology that the gameplay became an afterthought. Now I don’t even know what to showcase at the gaming convention coming up. What’s worse, I forced you to baby sit with me while I had my executive away in Seoul attempting to salvage something. I don’t know what I’m doing Seto,” you confessed, burying your face in your hands.

“Would you be interested in a partnership?” he questioned stoically.

“Thanks, but you don’t need to take pity on me,” you declined, “that’s a very husbandly thing for you to say though,” you offered him a small smile, resting against him.

“I wasn’t offering as your husband,” he corrected gruffly, looking down at you, “I was making the offer as the president of Kaiba Corp. I’m genuinely interested and immensely impressed with what your company has developed.”

“What are you suggesting?” you questioned, peering up at him.

“Kaiba Corp. has to a great extent completed developing the first few levels of our virtual reality game, from animations to programming to testing. Only, our helmets need a large generator stabilizing it, unlike yours.”

“You want to combine your gameplay with our technology,” you clarified, to which he nodded.

A collaboration wouldn’t raise the same concerns as a merger would in the industry, and was perhaps a strategic method of transition towards one.

“Shouldn’t you consult your board members?”

“Why?” he scoffed, “those fools hardly know up from down most of the time, besides, I have majority shares in this corporation, much like yourself.”

You hummed in thought.

“Cancel my four o’clock,” you heard him advise his secretary through the intercom on his desk, before returning to your side.

His secretaries were obviously going to misunderstand that considering you were in his office.

He brought your computer to his lap, flicking through the many pages you had open concerning the project. You watched as blue eyes flew left to right effortlessly over the many lines of code and quantum mechanics calculations that were beyond you.

“I obviously married the right woman,” he declared, “how do you feel about a merging venture?”

That was abrupt, as many things relating to him you had learned often was, though never short of thought.

“I’m not averse to it, though like we discussed before, it could create many issues regarding collusion and industry manipulation relating to supply and demand with the market presence our two corporations hold,” you rationalized, “that being said, with our personal relationship being public knowledge for quite some time, the relationship may soften the blow and lead it to being looked upon favourably.”

He offered a low hum in agreement.

“From a personal perspective,” you continued, “we’ll get to spend more time together if our companies are joined.”

“I see no problem with that,” a discernable smirk stretched across his lips, “do you?” 

Perhaps the secretaries were right in misunderstanding his reasons for cancelling the meeting, even if they had been different at first.


	5. Meetings

 

Seeing your husband had become a rarity in these last few weeks. Drowning in business trips and filming schedules, seeing each other for a day was a luxury, being together for a week was a miracle. You hoped being forced to work together would remedy that to some extent.

“Come here,” he husked, snatching you into his arms, your skin prickling in waves all over, as his hand wrapped around your back, fingers reaching for the zipper. Your gasp forced you to suffocate on air. His lips brushed against your ear as your zipper slid down with friction against the metal teeth.

Shifting in his lap you wrapped your legs around his waist.

Seto leaned his forehead against yours, his lips brushing against yours, just short of meeting them; your breath caught in his throat.

Intoxicated by his breath, you grew impatient, pressing your lips against his fleetingly, pulling away, and then kissing him again. The third time he didn’t respond your resolve broke, sucking his bottom lip into your mouth, teeth sinking in against the inside of his lip, he finally pressed forward. Your eyes opened, briefly flickering up to look over him as he kissed you back. Your eyes met deep blue ones already staring back. You wondered how often he watched you that way when he kissed you.

The moment you released him, his lips slid away from yours, ghosting over your chin, neck, and down to the valley between your collarbones.

He wrestled with the soft corset of your dress for a moment before folding it down, lips closing over your breast. His fingers digging into your hips, his tongue swirled over your nipple once before his teeth bit down rather roughly, forcefully drawing a cry from you. Your hands shot up from your sides to his hair, calling his name.

  
“We need to lock the door,” you urged him, and he merely grunted dismissively.

His tongue against your hardened nipple was electrifying, and you abandoned your inhibitions, releasing a needy moan. You could tell by the way one arm folded over your back, drawing you closer that it had pleased him.

His lips pulled away briefly, before they found your other breast, his tongue flicking against your nipple without sparing a moment. His hand fell from your hip to your leg, momentarily caressing up past your knee before forcing it between your legs.

Hitching your skirt up, his fingers rubbed against your inner thighs.

“We need to close the door,” you repeated, biting back a moan as his finger pressed against your folds over the fabric of your underwear. Your request was against met with dismissal.

Shrill rings suddenly began to reverberate across the silent room, startling you. Your husband seemed unperturbed, his tongue continuing to roll over your nipple.

A few more moments and the incessant ringing grew to be intolerable. Seto pulled away, drawing a thin string of saliva as he parted from you.

You had expected him to untangle himself from you entirely; crying out softly in surprise when instead he stood up, pulling you against his waist. Your dress gathered to a belt at your waist, you met his cerulean gaze with wide eyes, hands hooking around his neck instinctively.

"Kaiba," he answered gruffly, displeasure evident in his tone. "It's been completed?...I highly doubt that," he sneered, adjusting you against his waist, "if it's not, it wouldn't surprise me." His tone held unreserved disdain. "I'll come take a look."

The receiver was slammed against its holder in what you interpreted to be irritation.

He spared no time crushing his lips fiercely against yours, slamming your bare back against the wall of windows, reflexively forcing your back to arch forward as it was kissed by the cold sting of the glass.

"People can see," you managed to whisper between kisses.

"It's too bright outside," he disregarded. "that was...the head of... programming..." he panted between his lips attacking yours, "they completed the coding...for the -- fifth and sixth levels of the ... game," he pulled was entirely, "of the game I mentioned, what's your schedule like tomorrow morning?"

You were still recovering from the ecstasy he had drowned you in.

"I'll be in the office," you responded breathlessly, "Seto, we really need to close the door."

"No one will walk in without knocking," he assured. "I want you to come see the game tomorrow. Since you like seeing things in the field before investing in them," he added the last half coated heavily in sarcasm, an unmissable smirk playing on his lips. His one hand sliding away from around you, it slithered along the contours of your body, down to your inner thighs. Speaking in a spine chillingly deep register, his lips brushed your ear lobe, "I hope you're ready."

His fingers were parting your lips under the lace of your panties before you could comprehend it. His finger were painfully slow, and the sensation drew a long, drawn moan, so strained it almost resembled a scream.

You called his name, arms extending up to meet the cool glass as you were overwhelmed by heady sensations, desperately needing the chill of the glass to keep you from coming completely undone as he hooked two fingers into you.

You could feel the warmth of the sun against your neck, but the glass remained cool.

He claimed your lips again, a smirk pressing against your slightly parted lips, knowing he had you at his mercy; a reedy moan leaving you each time his fingers plunged in and out you. The pressure was beginning to become unbearable, when a knock sounded from the door, demanding your husband's attention.

They had definitely heard you.

His eyes weighed by furrowed brows met yours resembling a frightened doe.

Your lips parted to speak, but only air would come out. Seto reached for your dress, pulling it up, and reaching around you for the zipper.

“What is it?” he called sonorously as he fumbled with the zipper which refused to move past your mid back, allowing you to stand on your own feet.

“Mr. Kaiba, Mr. Kato is here to see you,” a voice you assumed belonged to one of his temporary secretaries sounded through the intercom.

“It’s stuck,” he growled lowly, gritting his teeth.

“What?” Your eyes remained in their widened state; hands flying back over his. There was not helping it, it was indeed stuck.

“Mr. Kaiba?” the female voice called after a few moments.

Lovely, if they hadn’t suspected you earlier, they definitely did now.

As you smoothed out the skirt of your dress, your husband draped his suit jacket over you.

“Try not to move too much and it should be fine,” he advised huskily, seating you in his chair, before calling them in, standing beside you.

As the older gentleman who you assumed was Kato walked in, you wanted to make yourself invisible, cursing your husband for his firm grip over the backrest of the chair which held you from turning away from the door.

"You know my fiancée," Seto introduced you tersely to the man, before proceeding to discuss the reason for his visit.

The conversation was rather brief, though while it concluded fairly quickly in the office, the subject required your husband to visit the lab.

"I'll be right back," Seto informed as he prepared to leave.

"Actually, I think I'm going to home. My driver dropped me off so I don't actually have the car here. Do you mind if I steal one of yours?"

He merely opened one of his desk drawers, motioning for you to help yourself to one of the many sets of keys.

"Which one do you want me to take?"

Mokuba had advised you fairly early in your relationship that his brother got unnecessarily tetchy and sensitive about his vehicles, regardless of how many he owned, without discrimination on each one.

"Which one do you not mind getting back with a few scratches?"

You were currently testing this theory.

"None," he snapped. "If you're planning to drive like that don't drive at all. I'll be back soon and I'll drive you home."

"I'll be careful, which one?"

"Any of them will do," he paused, eyes trained on the pair of keys strung through your fingers, "careful on the gas pedal with that one." That didn't sound very promising...or safe, so you fished out another set. "That's voice activated, it'll take some getting used to," he warned.

"Do you own cars or death traps?" you inquired disconcertedly, having listened to three more similarly ominous warnings. He sighed. "Just tell me which Seto."

"The first you picked, just be light on the gas," he advised before disappearing from his office.

  
The bastard had left you with a black Lamborghini.

"God please guide me or I owe my husband a new Lamborghini," you muttered to yourself.

...

  
You heard your name being called following the brass lock of the bedroom door clicking shut. There was a sense of urgency to his tone.

"I'm in here," you called from the bathroom, peeling off your sheet mask.

"You made it here in one piece, good. You weren't picking up your phone."

"Yeah...say you won't be mad?" You bit your lip as he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against him.

"What did you do?" He growled.

"Promise you won't be mad?" you pleaded looking up at him adoringly.

"Fine."

"You might need a new door, for your car," you lied, willing yourself not to laugh at how his features immediately contorted to an infuriated countenance.

"What?" he snarled, fingers digging into your back.

"I'm joking! You should have seen the look on your face, my god," you erupted into a roaring fit of laughter, causing his expression to warp further in irritation. "That's for having your way with me in your office with the door unlocked, and for making it so everyone on the other side heard," you declared sweetly.

His perfect composure returned to him as quickly as it had faltered, an unsettling smile turning up the corners of his lips.

"Speaking of," he husked, voice slipping off his tongue like dark velvet, "where were we?" he purred leaning into you.

"Seto I'm sorry, but I'm really tired," you refused, turning your face away to avoid his kiss. His fingers wrapping around your chin, he forced you to look up at him, lips closing over yours despite your protests. He stole a long, demanding kiss from you, before peering down at you with lustful eyes.

"Fine," he growled, releasing you unexpectedly, instead stalking into the closet.

He emerged a few moments later wearing a grey t-shirt and track pants.

"You just got home, you're leaving again?" You questioned with evident disappointment.

"You don't want to have sex," he noted blankly.

"No..." you trailed off.

"I need to spend the energy somewhere," he noted blankly, "you can come if you want."

"To the gym? I just took my make up off, and I'm in my nightgown already. I can't leave the house looking like this."

"You realize we have a gym on the second floor don't you?"

You hadn't, and in that case you definitely wouldn't miss the opportunity to see your husband in a sweat sodden shirt, defined muscles protruding through, hair drenched and plastered to his flushed face.

"I can read you like an open book," he chuckled as he walked past you.

...

  
You sat across from him on an empty stepping bench, watching him repeatedly pull down the heavy handles of the shoulder press, the silence of the massive gym punctuated by his hoarse pants.

"I didn't think you'd get home this late," you spoke your thoughts out loud, eyes absently drifting towards the darkness beyond the floor length windows on the distant wall. "You're getting home later and later these days." It was past eleven.

"Speaking of," he panted, releasing the metal handle of the apparatus, "I'll be away in New York for sometime the week after the next. Will you be okay?"

"Whether I'm okay or not will hardly sway your decision, though if it can helped, what dates are you away exactly?"

"It's on my phone, check the archives in my emails," he offered, reaching for the handles suspended above him. "Why?"

Splaying over the cushioned bench, you reached his phone with a degree of difficulty as you made a point not to walk over to it. Unlocking the fingerprint lock, it took you a moment to find his email app.

"Is it the second one on here?" you questioned, scrolling through his archives. He grunted in response. "Are these dates flexible?"

"To a degree."

"Could you, say - fly out two days later and come back five days later?" you requested apprehensively, biting your bottom lip knowing well that you were pushing it.

"Why?"

"I also need to be there for business on those dates."

"I'll see what I can do," your husband husked, startling you by how roughly he released the handles, sending the weights crashing towards the ground. "Come here," he ordered, wiping away the sweat streaming past his brow with the back of his hand.

"I would, but you're soaked in sweat and I just washed my hair," you teased, genuinely possessing no intention of going anywhere near him in that moment.

"You can have a shower again,'' he smirked.

"I don't think so," you returned his tone. "Have a shower and I'll come to you."

...

  
Slipping under the sheets, he spared no time scooping you into his arms, one hand splayed over the back of your head, the other protectively wrapped around your back, his chin resting over your crown.

You could feel butterflies rising in your stomach at the affection he was unexpectedly showering you in, a soft giggle you couldn't help leaving you.

"I would be happy just staying like this with you," you uttered in a whisper against his chest.

"You're such a child," he remarked roughly, "there's more to a relationship than this."

"What more could there be in a relationship besides incandescent happiness?" You asked.

"You seem to see everything with playground eyes, it concerns me how you navigate through this world," he stated hoarsely, tightening his arms, "what's more? All the factors which go into creating that frivolous sentiment; responsibility, obligation, loyalty, compromise."

"You make it sound like a chore," you disputed.

"I'm adding pragmatism to your fairytales."

You supposed that was an accurate description of your relationship as a whole.

"I want to release two games with the introduction of your stabilized VR helmet," he informed after a while of silence, "a grand release will draw the deserved attention to the concept and technology."

You sighed in irritation.

"Could you not bring work into bed? I really could care less about my work when I'm here with you."

He was blurring personal - professional lines you weren't comfortable with losing clarity on.

"I want to hear your perspective," he pressed.

"We all know what I say wouldn't matter if you're adamant in pursuing it," you yawned, too exhausted to form a worthwhile response. He growled your name, demanding an answer you had invested thought in. "Seto please, it's past one in the morning," you protested to no avail, meeting a stern countenance that wouldn't be convinced otherwise. "Fine," you huffed throwing the covers away from you, untangling yourself from his arms, "I think consecutive releases would be better if you really want to release two, because releasing them at the same time will distract the audience and divide fans choosing one over the other instead if investing in both. Neither will get the proper attention it deserves, kind of like when companies release two different music videos at the same time for an idol group to purposefully do them dirty to divide up, thereby reducing the view count."

"Interesting comparison, though agreed, go on."

He wanted more? What was he expecting, a rationale?

"If I'm quite honest, I think focusing our resources on one game and amping up the marketing campaign would be more beneficial, but that's just me, though then again I would also rather not be having this conversation with the president of Kaiba Corporation at two in the morning in bed dressed in my nightgown, when I really just what him to be my husband and let me sleep."

"A strong marketing campaign is a given, and I was proposing two games vastly different in concept to reach a broader audience rather than two games that would call for the attention of the same group of individuals," he elaborated, disregarding you completely.

You wondered if this merger would grow to consume your marriage, especially if he insisted on doing this every night. That being said, the president side of you couldn't dismiss what he had said, unable to contain yourself from responding.

"I see, though given the novelty of the technology, while I'm not suggesting that the level of engagement isn't significant and vital in the performance of the launch in the market, I hardly think it's something that needs such elaborate devising to attract an audience. And on that same note, anyone interested in the technology will automatically want to try both games, while those who don't possess such an interest won't care for it either way, so in that way, despite the concept, releasing two games at once can be a fatal mistake, especially taking into consideration the financial background of our players - most of who would be students and young adults."

"I don't think I'm communicating my intentions concisely," he declared, sitting up, obviously throughly invested in this topic of conversation. It was now past two and you've had it.

"Seto, If I sleep, if I have sex with you right now, would you shut up about video games?"

He looked at you with a gaze which held incredulity and mild irritation.

"You said you were tired when I asked your earlier," he finally relented, "just go to sleep."

"Are you upset?" You questioned his brooding expression as you laid down over his arm.

"Of course not."

...

Seven in the morning found you wrapped around Seto's arm, reluctantly being dragged through the corridors of Kaiba Corp. Your husband was quite obviously heavily invested, his surprisingly pleasant mood contrasting jarringly your disinterest.

When the heavy metal door slid open to his programming department, revealing to you several dozen employees settled into their workstations, you didn't possess the energy necessary to push yourself off of your husband as you gained their undivided attention. Two and a half hours of sleep - the last half hour a result of forcing Seto to shower before you - could not possibly provide you with adequate energy to appear any more presentable or assertive as Seto had requested of you numerous times.

Your displeasure only grew when he informed that you wouldn't personally be testing out the game, rather watching one of his employees navigating the game play.

"Why the hell not? I woke up at four in the morning for this."

"It's stable, but not stable enough for me to put my wife through it, you're not expendable, all those other people are, especially the testers," he explained in a hushed tone, pulling you aside.

You didn't have any concept for video games, ironically, despite your position. So watching the code which was of no consequence to you running like movie credits in neon green on the black screen to your left, while observing the tester Seto had employed navigating through the many levels of the game, Seto explaining all the specifics you didn't understand or care for, you were hardly holding yourself from falling asleep on his arm.

Your sleep deprived system also didn't seem to care for the three overbearing department heads anxiously breathing down your neck, or the entire department of employees holding their breath as their boss subjected their work to intense scrutiny under both himself, as well as the competing corporation's CEO.

You were explained beforehand that the game was a quest type game, involving different races of characters living in various, fantasy based geographic regions. The objective of the game to level up your characters, fight your way through the many bosses of each level, and ultimately reach some crystal dragon which would allow you to reign over the kingdom. Anything beyond this explanation, such as details pertaining to what differentiated this game from all the others, wouldn't register with you.

"Pay attention," Seto hissed, watching your heavy eyelids weigh over your bleary eyes.

"Seto, just give me a report which lists out all the details, or let's have my vice-president analyze this because unless I'm testing this myself, this is a waste of my time."

"You wanted to see it in the field, besides, I as your husband would give you better perspective on the game than your employee."

"You're my husband, yes, but also my competitor, not to say I don't trust you but pragmatically I shouldn't. This is an aerial view of the field, not the actual field. From what I've seen, I do have a thought though, if you're interested, mind if I talk to you in your office?" you asked of your husband. His eyes narrowed at the sudden secrecy, motioning with his outstretched arm to walk with him to his office.

You offered a polite bow in the direction of the petrified department head who you were certain misunderstood your request for a private audience with Seto as a definite communication of your disappointment with the game. Your blank, fatigue stricken face devoid of any emotion only abetted in seeming as if you were severely displeased.

Exiting the department, Seto slid a firm arm around your waist, pulling you against his side.

"I'm having my interim secretary handle the first round of over the phone interviews for filling the temporary position, we'll hold the second round by Tuesday next week. I want you to make time in your schedule." You offered a distracted sigh in response. "Are you listening?"

His tone had grown testy, and just as you were about to respond, you were interrupted by an older, stout gentleman you recognized to be one of Seto's directors. You had never received him as particularly agreeable, his holier-than-thou attitude rarely failing to rouse sentiments of indignation.

"Mrs. Kaiba, what a pleasant surprise to see you here this morning, my wife is at the spa getting ready for the ball tonight, I thought you would be too," the director in the grey-green tailored suit extended to you in greeting, voice melodious yet calculated, earning immediately Seto's personal ire. In spite of the seemingly friendly words, his tone, as it usually did, carried a certain insinuation of belittlement.

"Unlike your wife," Seto expressed with unrestrained scorn, "mine has a job. She doesn't sit around all day wasting my money. She's also not here as my wife at the present moment, rather the CEO of Kodama."

"Mr. Kaiba, I didn't mean that with any disrespect," the older gentlemen quickly recoiled, effectively detecting the disdain your husband's words were conveyed with.

Seto released a noise of dismissal resembling an 'hmph."

"Are you suggesting that we could potentially see a collaboration between our company and Kodama in the near future?" the director probed inquisitively, his sly tone continuing to be unsettling.

"If such a thing were to happen, it will be discussed at the director's meeting," your husband snapped, "I hardly have the time to have idle conversation with you in the corridors, good day."

With that as a parting remark, you were drawn by the waist away to his personal elevator; muttering something about people sticking their abnormally large noses where they don't belong.

Standing a step behind him to his side, you retrieved your cell phone, intent on reading the email from your research and development head you were notified of receiving a few minutes ago.

Perhaps two fleeting seconds passed by; the amount of time it took for the elevator doors to close, before you were thrown roughly against the back wall of the elevator, your skin prickling at the touch of cool metal. It was entirely unexpected, and it took you a long moment to recover and comprehend what was happening, for that whole moment believing you were genuinely under attack.

When your consciousness afforded you clarity of rational thought, your husband was pressed against you, towering over you, your hands pinned on either side of your head. You watched wordlessly, too shocked to speak, as his fingers traced up your palms, urging your fingers to open. He laced his long fingers through yours momentarily, blue eyes asserting dominance as your gazes met, before slamming his lips down on yours. Your gasp getting lost beyond his parted lips.

His hands fell away from your wrists, one travelling to feel up your skirt, the other ghosting its way under your blouse, and up your slightly protruding ribs.

"Seto, what are you doing, it's barely seven in the morning," you inquired incredulously, putting up a poor fight against his aggressive hands which insisted on wandering your body.

"You didn't give me what I wanted last night," he growled in your ear.

"So what, you're going to let me have it on your office desk?" You questioned, intending the tone to convey the humour you saw in the situation.

"Depending on how bad you make me want you," he husked, squeezing you breast rather roughly over your bra, having slithered under your now half untucked blouse. You could feel electricity pulse between your legs.

"I'm sorry," you spoke in a strained whisper, suppressing your own desire, his lips brushing over yours, "I have a splitting headache."

The way he made love, it would take hours for you to recover.

"I can fix that," he disregarded, fingers reaching for the buttons of your crisp white shirt.

"Babe, no," you firmly maintained, hoping the changed manner of address would cause him to falter, grimacing when it in fact had the exact opposite

"Say that again," he rasped, grinding his hips against yours, arms falling to cup your ass under your short skirt, lips eating - for a lack of a better descriptor - yours hungrily.

"Seto I have to be at a brunch with Tom Ford later, and I know how much of a mess you like making."

You watched a smirk turn up his lips at your unwittingly stroking his ego.

"The designer?"

"Is there any other Tom Ford?"

He dismissed the snide comment with a grunt, pulling away rather grudgingly.

  
...

"I suggest turning this to an RPGMMO game, we have some of the base programs we developed for the artificial intelligence that you destroyed and I think it would allow us to launch this on a wider scale," you suggested, standing across from him at his desk.

"I'm not opposed to it," he declared with a quizzical brow, leaning forward on his laced fingers, considering your words once over from how it appeared, "though I am concerned that you kept this from me. We agreed to destroy anything the AI touched. I didn't see it in your mainframe, where did you keep it?"

"On my personal laptop, they're just blueprints of sorts" you began dismissively.

Mostly as you had predicted the onslaught that followed.

"Are you insane?" he roared, "do you realize how dangerous that was? I was protecting you from all sides, destroying anything that would have been a threat to you in the least bit and you were keeping - do you think?"

"It was of no consequence."

"That wouldn't have mattered to them and that's for me to decide!" He snarled.

"Seto, it's over, you said it yourself, it doesn't matter anymore -"

"What else are you keeping from me?" He glowered, eyes narrowing to slits as you placed your hand on his shoulder, walking around his desk.

"Nothing, why would I keep anything from you?"

"I wouldn't know, why did you keep this?"

"Why do I owe you an explanation for everything?" you bit back.

"Because I'm your husband, and legally your guardian, this is the sort of thing I ought to know," he seethed, "I asked you, what else are you keeping from me?"

"What would you like to hear Seto? That I have a boyfriend on the side? That I don't actually have brunch with Tom Ford, because that one is actually true - that was yesterday. That I'm keeping things from you because I'm plotting for divorce? I'm not keeping anything from you! What ridiculous confession would you like to hear?"

You should have known he wouldn't respond kindly to that remark, but words sometimes had a way of getting away from you before you could taste them entirely yourself.


	6. Falling Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for being so tardy with the comments, they are always appreciated though and I will get to all of them :)

"Being unfaithful is beneath you, I hold you to a higher standard," he snarled.

"I wasn't being serious," you defended, unsettled by his tone.

"Infidelity isn't something that should be used lightly to further your agenda."

"I'm sorry," you admitted, "it wasn't appropriate in our relationship."

"It's utterly - you're what?"

"I said I'm sorry," you repeated.

"You're being awfully subservient."

"I'm just - look, there's nothing I can do about keeping what I kept from you, at least not now, but that was honestly it."

"You broke my trust," he asserted sternly.

Your arm fell from his shoulder.

"Oh? And you've never kept things from me? Let's talk about how Wakamura died."

His countenance grew immediately austere, expression hardening at the topic.

"I told you to let it go," he growled, "don't challenge me."

Your eye twitched at the command, eyebrow arching up. You weren't a fan of the unbalanced dynamic of power he was instilling into the relationship.

"I don't like you speaking to me that way," you shot back, tone wavering, disconcerted by his sudden display of dominance.

He heaved a tired sigh, arm reaching for yours by your side, drawing your wrist towards him. You fell forward onto him, knee wedging into his chair between his legs.

"My intention wasn't to scare you."

"Did I cross some line again in your personal life?"

"You didn't."

He tilted his face up, pulling you closer, stealing a long, demanding kiss from you. You noticed as you closed your eyes that his eyes were already closed; there was a certain sincerity in his kiss.

"Don't flatter yourself," you whispered against his lips, referring to his earlier comment. He ignored your words, crushing his lips against yours again, arm snaking around your back, holding you closer. His teeth sank against your bottom lip, and you opened your eyes to brilliant sapphire. You tried to pull away but he wouldn't allow it. "You're hurting me," you protested incoherently.

"Stop lashing out at me like a child," he ordered, pulling away.

You couldn't even remember who had begun the argument at this point and simply did not possess the energy to pursue it.

"Fine," you murmured, wrapping your arms around him, settling into his lap. "You smell good," you whispered, sinking into him.

"You're suggesting an online multiplayer type game," he resumed abruptly, though his hand instinctively slipped around you. You groaned at the sudden change of subject. "If you want us to work together, you can't keep allowing our relationship to interfere."

He was contradicting himself, but you couldn't disagree that it would be difficult keeping your hands off your husband when work grew to be frustrating and the two of you were confined in his office for long hours late at night.

"You're the one that yelled at me, and also the one that kissed me just now, not to mention felt me up in the elevator," you contested.

"Going forward," he spoke dismissively, "I can't be your husband when we are working as presidents from two merging companies."

"You're only making me want you more," you mumbled breathily, face nuzzling against the side of his neck.

"I'm being serious," he maintained sternly, turning his face towards yours buried in his neck.

"Seto," you purred, kissing his cheek.

"I won't make decisions in your best interest here, I might do things you don't agree with," he husked, blue eyes darting down to meet yours with a pointed gaze, "I need you to know it's not personal."

You narrowed your eyes.

"I'm not here to listen to your lectures. If that's how you want to handle it, have your legal team draw up a draft for a merger and I'll have mine do the same and then we can negotiate. Good day, Mr. Kaiba," you extended in a formal tone, irritation plainly apparent as you separated yourself from him, or at least tried to.

"You need to get a handle on your temper," he groused, refusing to release you.

"That's rich coming from you of all people," you snapped, "I would be nice to me if I were you, that is, if you want me to be considerate towards you during this merger, I'm known for being ruthless when it comes to these arrangements."

"Strong words coming from the girl still sitting on my lap."

"You're not doing yourself any favours, Mr. Kaiba."

"Will this help?" he questioned, a dark, suggestive undertone to his voice, falling to a deeper register with each word, "Mrs.Kaiba?" He buried his face against the side of your neck, planting kisses up the side.

"What happened to keeping business and pleasure separate?" you bit back a moan.

"I know where to draw the line."

"And I don't?"

"You're still a child," he spoke in a growl, "you've grown to depend on me, and I don't want it affecting our marriage when I make decisions that aren't in your favour. I'm not the kindest person to do business with."

You chuckled, your laugh reverberating through the large office.

Seto Kaiba and 'kind' were rarely used in the same sentence.

"Signing a deal with you is like signing with the devil, I think everyone knows that, but my signature is already next to yours on our marriage certificate. I can't see any other contract with more severe repercussions, can you?"

He returned your laugh.

"You're clearly not focused enough to talk about this right now," he then plainly noted, "let's have a meeting about it at a later time."

"I'll send you a briefing presentation of my idea," you suggested, receiving a nod from him. You motioned to stand up and he released you.

Reaching for your handbag on his desk, you rummaged through its contents fishing for your car keys.

"I drove you this morning," your husband called from his seat behind you, arm snaking around your waist.

"How do you know what I'm looking for?"

"I know you. You keep your car keys in the inner left pocket of your handbags."

That comment was spine chilling somehow; that he was so acutely perceptive to such a degree that he had somewhere along the lines - you didn't know how early in the relationship - noticed your most obscure habits that were so subconscious they, while second nature, were elusive to even your own conscious stream of thought.

"When did you -"

"What's this?" he inquired suddenly, reaching for the magazine wedged into your jade Hermes bag.

"It's a bridal magazine. I was looking at wedding dresses."

His eyes grew to their usual, cold countenance, glossing over the cover momentarily before flicking through the pages.

"You want us to walk down the aisle?" your husband's eyes drifted up to meet yours; the disdainful tone with which he addressed the topic leaving a sour tone in your mouth.

"Yes? Are you against it?"

"I'm not for it."

"Not to jinx ourselves, but you only get married once, so I want a wedding," you spoke calmly, in spite of your frustration, "I want a big wedding. I want to wear a big dress and -"

He chuckled again, interrupting you.

"I missed the joke," you snapped

"Is that what you want?" he questioned, turning you by the wrist to face him. You studied his face as you stood over him, confined between his legs and his desk behind you. His features didn't hold any trace of sarcasm, even concealed.

"It is," you declared uncertainly.

"Then I'll think about it."

"What's there to think about? I'm not negotiating with you whether or not we are having a wedding."

He growled your name, "you're being a child."

"What part of me stating what I want is childish?"

"Your tone," he firmly asserted, "I've never heard you speak to anyone else that way."

You would admit that you had grown to be extremely comfortable around him, which, aside from his brother, you didn't think anyone could say of their relationship with Seto Kaiba.

You motioned to speak when the ringing of the intercom interrupted you.

The reedy voice of the woman you recognized to be your husband's temporary secretary informed him of a department head waiting for a meeting with him.

"Send him in."

Your husband drew you by the wrist to stand a professional distance away from him, beside his desk.

"Let's talk about this later," he advised sternly, "now is hardly appropriate."

"There's nothing to talk about," you stressed, "what's there to consider?"

You wouldn't hear the answer as the heavy wooden door opened, a cracking noise reverberating throughout the room as the brass handle twisted.

Your head turned around instinctively to meet the dark eyes of a young man possibly Seto's age. The department head of marketing, you had been told.

"Is there an appearance requirement to work in marketing?" you inquired sarcastically from your husband, earning a quizzical expression.

"What?" he hissed, brows furrowing.

"I just meant first Kaoru and now this guy," you whispered, smirking, your back turned to the guest.

"You know how I feel about Hidehira," he growled.

"Sorry," you stifled a giggle, "I manage talent for a living, I can't help it."

You could tell by the way Seto's features twisted, that he was ready to make a scathing remark, had he not been first addressed by the department head.

"Mr. Kaiba," he greeted curtly, sparing the pleasantries as you knew your husband preferred, "you called for me?"

"Yes," Seto spoke gruffly, "you know my fiancée." You took this as a cue to turn to face the man you were yet to be introduced to, "this is the head of marketing, Tamaki Hitachin, you'll be working closely with him."

The tall man offered you a polite bow.

"What happened to Kaoru?" you inquired, curious as to why you will be working with the department head and not the director, not that you were particularly fond of said director.

"You're acquainted with director Hidehira," the young man spoke up, "of course," he added, as if to answer his own statement posed more as a question.

"I didn't say you will be working with Hitachin alone," your husband clarified, ire plainly visible across his features. You were quite certain as a result of the mention of Hidehira.

"Either way, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance," you offered with a polite smile, reaching forward to shake Tamaki's hand. "Take good care of me," you added out of habit, oblivious to the creases on your husband's face which deepened at the comment which he felt sought to create unneeded familiarity.

"Likewise," Tamaki agreed, returning a firm hand shake, "and please, I should be asking that if you."

It was beyond you how employees of your husband's company managed to maintain such high spirits working for the tyrant he was.

The conversation came to an awkward halt, Seto picking where the silence left off.

The two men fell into conversation regarding internal matters and you - despite your unfinished conversation with a certain irascible CEO - elected to depart.

"I'll be going then," you informed, offering a nod of the head to the department head and a light squeeze against your husband's arm. You pointedly placed the bridal magazine over his closed laptop, throwing him a meaningful glare, before stalking out of the office with as much grace as you could display.

...

You watched Seto walk into the bedroom. Closing the door behind him, he dropped his suitcase against the wall.

He traversed across the room in a few long strides, exhaustion apparent on his face.

He loosened his tie, throwing his tailored suit jacket over the bed next to where you were currently sitting, watching a drama on your tablet, bare feet lightly swinging as they dangled over the edge, slightly visible from under the full skirt of your custom Dior gown which fell around your ankle.

You didn't acknowledge him, though you held out a black garment bag containing a black tuxedo.

"Wear this," you advised, your tone implying that it was an order, "I had it imported from a couturier in Italy, it should fit exactly."  
  
"I thought you weren't speaking to me?" he inquired roughly, a hint of humour betraying his tone, reminding you of how you had declined his invitation to lunch.

Your continued silence you hoped conveyed that you still weren't.

He groaned, spitting a comment about how childish were being, before snatching the bag from your outstretched hand and stalking into the closet.

When he emerged, you were smoothening out the ballgown skirt of your white-ivory gown. The gown, despite only being fitted once, fit perfectly, the strapless, sweetheart neckline which was inspired by intricately folded origami sitting against your chest only revealed a very moderate amount of cleavage.

Seto brushed away the wisps of hair fallen from the braided bun, at the nape of your neck. The unexpected sweep of his fingertips sent a shiver across your exposed skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps. Your eyes darted down to your collarbones at the cool touch of metal before flicking up to appraise your reflection.

You looked at the tangled vine of white gold and platinum, emulating a delicate string of dainty botanical blooms, centres embedded with brilliant blue sapphires, the shade of his eyes, punctuating the white diamonds.

Your eyes drifted to meet his eyes in the reflection before you. You noticed he looked stunning in the dark tux, though perhaps that was a pointless observation as obviously he wouldn't look anything but striking. If you had been on speaking terms, you would likely have openly acted on your feelings of affection that were inspired by the sight.

He reached for your hand, dropping a pair of long, matching earrings on your open palm.

Save for the blue stones, you noticed the set matched the white diamond diadem adorning your head.

"These have blue stones, I can't wear colour."

"You're mine," he husked, "I don't see why making that clear is an issue."

"I'm not your possession."

"No," he agreed, "but this whole occasion is so nauseatingly archaic, this is hardly any different."

"You're only perpetuating those archaic values," you contested.

"Do you not want to wear my colours?"

His tone conveyed a mixture of annoyance and the implication that he was offended.

"No," you sighed, "it's beautiful, thank you."

"It's not the jewellery," he remarked, "contrary to the saying, fine feathers do not make a fine bird."

"Are you calling me beautiful?" you questioned, assuming a facade of blondness.

He spun you around, giving you that soul piercing gaze.

"You're ravishing," he husked, sending another wave of goosebumps. He lifted your arm, wrapping a dainty bracelet around your wrist to match the necklace and earrings.

You watched him for a moment, too timid to return the compliment.

"You styled your hair," you noted, looking at how his hair was neatly swept to the side, though not too contrastingly different from how it usually fell. He hummed in response. "You should do it more often," you murmured.

"Takes too much effort." His voice was deep and bordered on being raspy at that register.

You returned a hum, putting on the earrings, as he straightened his bow tie in the mirror behind you.

He gave you a once over, eyes lingering over your face for a long moment, before offering you his arm. You could tell by the way his lips curved upwards that he had approved of the soft makeup you had opted for and the gradient, dark pink lip.

 

"Don't you have anything taller?" he questioned, eyes falling to the pointed toed stilettos which peeked out from under the tea length dress as you walked down the stairs.

"These are already five inches tall without a platform, do you want me to break my neck?"

"You should have worn platforms then," he groused.

"Wouldn't match the dress," you dismissed, defending your crystal studded Jimmy Choos.

Guiding you into the limo, he placed his hand over your head to shield you from the car's roof. You didn't know if he knew how much you appreciated those little gestures.

The moment he was seated next to you, his left arm was snaked around your waist. He leaned in, ghosting his lips over your neck for a moment before pulling away, though his hand stayed. You could tell he wanted to do much more, but was restraining himself.

"How was work?" he inquired, peering down at you.

"Fine."

"I sent you lunch," he continued.

"I know."

"Did you eat lunch?" he required clarity.

"No."

"Why not?" his tone grew irritable.

"Didn't have the time."

He growled your name. "How long are you going to act up like this?"

"As long as I please." That earned you another low growl.

A long silence reigned, the distant whir of wheels against asphalt on the empty road which stretched to Tokyo the only discernible noise as the limo moved under the cover of the falling dusk.

Your husband occupied himself with his phone, reading some kind of report. You leaned against him as that was the only comfortable position his tightly wrapped arm around your waist allowed, eyes absently glossing over the text scrawled across his phone screen. He didn't object, though from the way his eyes had flickered to meet yours, you knew he had noticed.

"I'm not supposed to be reading this, am I?" you inquired flatly, realizing from the handful of words your mind registered that this was classified Kaiba Corp. research and development information.

"It doesn't bother me. Besides, you're hardly paying any attention."

The silence continued again, occasionally punctuated by him berating you for falling asleep.

...

Seto must have abandoned his efforts of attempting to keep you awake because you were woken by gentle shaking to the soft light of the limo.

You were still leaned against his chest, body contorted awkwardly into his, one heel fallen away from your foot and rolled to the far corner of the vehicle.

He left your side, reaching forward for your discarded heel. Kneeling in front you, he gently slipped the shoe back on to your foot.

You couldn't understand why he was being so tolerant of you despite your irascible behaviour and intentional animosity. You would have asked, had it not required you admitting to your poor conduct.

  
He led you out by the arm. Walking across the arch adorned bridge lit by green lampposts heavy with golden orbs which led to the imperial courtyard, the last of the cherry blossoms were falling, dancing in flurries through the wind before falling to float in the dark water below where the moonlight dissolved in streams.

You could see the imperial palace in the distance above, white walls reflecting the moon, its traditional roof curving over them.

Walking over the bridge, all eyes were on the two of you, of course the irony of the most powerful man in the nation attending the ball held - at least traditionally - by the man who was supposed to be the most powerful was always interesting to the guests. Their eyes fell from your face to your collarbones, bearing the weight of the diamond flowers sprawled over them, the unorthodox blue on the unmarried woman stirring conversation.

If Seto had been wanting to make a statement, he had accomplished that, though of course Seto Kaiba never did things unintentionally, besides perhaps being endearing on the occasion.

"It's so pretty," you gushed, maintaining your voice barely above a whisper, looking up at your husband. "Isn't it?"

He offered a small smile in response, bordering on a smirk, and you would bet money that he was mentally remarking how childish and easily pleased you were.

  
You had been told Mokuba would be in attendance and you looked forward to his company, but before you had even crossed half the bridge, the two of you had amassed an impressive crowd of ministers and politicians.

One advantage you were particularly fond of in being married, or being involved, especially with Seto Kaiba, was that now, you no longer needed to apply your attention and efforts to conversing with these men, which really, by extension meant that you no longer needed to find creative excuses to apologetically refuse them proposing marriage to you with their sons. Not being subjected to talk politics you found particularly loathsome was also a plus.

It was this pattern of thought that left you at a complete loss when one question was directed your way when where your attention had completely strayed towards he rainstorm of cherry blossoms over the bridge as you were led forward on the courtyard bustling with guests.

"Sorry, what was the question?" you asked embarrassed, looking up to your husband for clarification.

"I was saying," a stout politician offered, "that between you and your fiancé, the two of you could bring the country to its knees if you put your mind to it."

"Pardon me Mr. Nishida, but I think my husband - excuse me, my future husband, could do that on his own if he put his mind to it," you corrected, your tone conveyed with discernible humour.

The circle of men shared a hearty laugh, which resounded with a hollow echo lacking sincerity; all except your husband of course, who wore his signature scowl.

Conversation ensued again, your attention inevitable wandering.

You hated public gatherings, that fact would remain unchanged, though you would admit they were slightly more tolerable now that you were no longer attending alone.

You were beginning to think that you were never going to find a decent conversation partner, aka Mokuba, being joined with more and more individuals you didn't recognize, when Mokuba found you. You tore your arm away from your husband, thanking his brother quietly for salvaging you from the mob that continuously demanded your attention.

As you walked away from the throngs of guests in lavish attire, the two of you made idle conversation, from work, to the weather, to the coming season, before settling on the actual topic you knew he had wanted to tackle.

"So..." he dragged his words, "how are things? How are things with Seto?"

"Good," you simply said, as the two of you found a quiet place by the river bank, away from the other guests, under the bridge.

"Don't lie," he berated knowingly, "I already know the correct answer, I'm allowing you to give me your interpretation of the situation."

You wondered if he knew how much he sounded like his brother.

"And... my feeling that it's good can't be my interpretation?"

"Oh you're good," he smirked, "fair enough," he conceded, pausing. "Can I be honest with you?"

"Of course."

He looked pensive, which was unlike him, and you grew apprehensive of this sudden change in demeanour.

"Call me partial, but I think you're being a real bitch to my brother," he declared abruptly, taking you by complete shock at the sheer bluntness and impertinence of his statement.

"Excuse me?"

"Don't get me wrong, you make him very happy and I still really like you," he quickly followed up, "but you're being unfair to him."

"I'm being unfair? He just imposes his opinions and wishes on me and has his temper on a very short leash."

"That's just how he is," Mokuba insisted, "but believe me you get away with a lot more with him that I ever would."

That was...flattering?

"That doesn't make it okay by comparison."

"No..." he trailed off, a line forming between his brows as he appeared to consider whether or not to vocalize his thoughts, "but you know what he said to me?"

"What?" you asked, half anxious, half ready to offer your husband a piece of your mind.

"Don't tell him I told you this," he pleaded, only continuing when you nodded your head in reassurance. "He said he didn't know why with all the danger out of the picture, the two of you couldn't just be happy."

"He said that?" you questioned skeptically, eyebrow arching.

"Not in those exact words."

"Right."

"No, really!"

"How much of that came from your own pocket Mokuba?"

"I swear, he just wants a good marriage."

"No," you corrected, "he also wants children, and, whatever I'm willing to compromise, but he doesn't want a wedding."

"Yes I know. How long are you planning to give him the cold shoulder?"

"Indefinitely - wait he told you that?"

"He tells me everything."

"Everything?" You threw him a quizzical look, expression confronting uncomfortably at the implication.

"Okay, ew," he squirmed, "no, most things, most things, not everything," he quickly rephrased. "Though now, I guess," he paused, a deeply sorrowful expression befalling him, "just things he can't talk about with you, like when you upset him. Anyway," he resumed, "is a wedding even all that important? You'd still be married to him at the end of the day regardless, and if that's enough for him, shouldn't that be enough for you?"

You exhaled deeply, mulling over his words.

"How badly does your brother want children?"

"Very."

"I see."

"I've been meaning to tell you this for a while now, and I don't know if it's okay to talk about this now...or if the wounds are still fresh. I'm also aware that it's not my place. Just that...He knows the miscarriage wasn't easy for you, and I'm not sure if you know, but it wasn't very easy for him either. He thinks it's his fault."

"The miscarriage?"

He hummed in response.

"It's hardly his fault," you whispered.

"Seto doesn't care about much," Mokuba declared softly, "the few things he does, he wants to protect from everything. He cares about you very much." He let out a small laugh, "these days, you're all he talks about, I mean, he hardly asks me how I am."

Silence fell over the both of you following that comment. You didn't know how to appropriately respond.

"Thank you for telling me," you finally extended.

  
The both of you joined your husband shortly after.

Seto's arm immediately slipped around your waist, throwing his brother a pointed glare.

"Where did you take her?" he growled. "I was beginning to worry."

Mokuba offered a nervous smile, rubbing the back of his head.  
  
The three of you spent a few more minutes in conversation with a number of dignitaries and ambassadors before the younger Kaiba slipped away without anyone noticing.

Throughout the course of the evening, you and your husband were asked a string of questions about your plans for marriage, your wedding and the odd question here and there, mostly from older women, of your plans for having heirs for each of your estates. Most of these inquiries were made out of genuine fascination and curiosity that was inspired in people at the thought of the young, cold, and fear instilling CEO suddenly settling down. You could see how the contrast would be strange and amusing to onlookers unfamiliar with your dynamic. From the inquiries and conversations you were subjected to it seemed, that many people were still having a difficult time accepting that two of you were truly in love and not arranged, mostly given your husband's -difficult - disposition.

You observed how Seto grew uncomfortable at such personal inquiries and differed each one to you, reserving himself to uncompromising silence.

You had brought yourself to accept that you couldn't force a wedding to happen, and even if you did, if Seto wasn't invested in the idea, it wouldn't be worth it. That being said, you couldn't lie, you weren't made of steel and ice, and it stung each time the topic of the wedding resurfaced. It felt like you were swindling your own consciousness as well as those you answered each time you spoke of holding a small, private wedding. To an extent, it felt as if you were robbing yourself as you reminded yourself of what could be.

 

You were standing at the edge of the dance floor, watching the couples waltzing across the ballroom floor.

"Dance with me," a deep voice demanded from behind you. You swirled around to face your husband.

"You want to dance?" you asked bewildered. "You hate dancing."

"I'm not doing it for me," he husked, taking your hand before his words had even processed, drawing you behind him.

"Then why do it?" you asked as his other hand slipped around your back, pulling you in, yours falling over his shoulder reflexively, feet following his.

"You really looked like you were wanted to."

"I didn't particularly."

"Why are you still so withdrawn with me?"

"That's not true," you disagreed, "I don't like making you do things you aren't comfortable with, I don't want you to do things you don't want to for my sake."

"I never do things I don't want to."

Your eyes fell to his chest, a small smiling playing on your lips.

"Thank you."

He looked down at you, unbeknownst to you, a ghost of a smile forming on his lips.

Walking off the dance floor, you observed your husband's expression grow dark, eyes focusing into the distance across the ballroom. You followed his line of vision, meeting a very old, and well recognized family, realization dawning on you.

"I didn't realize Kaoru was one of the Hidehiras."

"It's not a common last name, how did you not realize?" Seto spoke in a low growl, picking up a glass of white wine. "Don't even think about it," he snapped, eyes trained on your hand lifting to reach for your own glass. "I better not see you drinking that," he barked as your fingers defiantly wrapped around the stem of the flute.

"You're not the boss of me."

''What are you five? No, I'm the person that has to deal with your poor health when your reflux comes back. Drink all you want when you recover."

The rest of the night, including dinner, progressed uneventfully, even the brief exchange of words your husband had with the Hidehira family. Kaoru maintained an acceptable distance from you, offering you no more than a polite smile, for which you were grateful, considering you had possessed no desire to interact with him at all.

"Why don't you ever style your hair like that?" you asked of your husband as the doorman handed him your long, silk, cape inspired coat which was designed to match your gown, referring to the way Kaoru's hair was swept back.  
  
"Because people like him style it that way," he spat gruffly, draping the coat over your shoulders, helping you slide your arms through.

You hummed in thought. "It would look good on you, better."

"One of these days, perhaps."

...

"How come Mokuba isn't coming back with us, it's the weekend," you questioned once the two of you were back in the limo, throwing your coat across to the adjacent seat.

"He had business to attend to."

"Thats a shame."

  
You reached for your clutch, retrieving a small brush. You began to take apart your bun, pulling out the hundreds of small metal pins holding up the intricately braided design.

"What are you doing?" your husband inquired, watching a small pile of bobby pins building up on your lap. Feeling your hair for any that you missed, you brushed out the braids, your hair voluminously cascading down in thick waves.

"Preparing to take a nap."

The one bobby pin which always unavoidably eluded you flung across the seat with one last brush stroke. You poured the hair pins into the clutch before brushing away the stray hair which had fallen over your lap. Discarding the clutch to a distant corner of your seat, you settled against your husband's chest.

"You're not going to take off your crown?" he asked, adjusting himself under you, left hand wrapping around you.

"That's more effort than I'm willing to spare right now, besides, I want to wear it a little longer."

The sharp edges of the carved roses and buds were uncomfortable to him as they pressed against him, digging into his skin, but he wouldn't say anything.

Seto hummed in response, curving into you, surrounding you completely. You felt his lips press against your hairline.

You could feel the darkness punctuated by street lights, golden waves of light sweeping across your face beyond your closed eyes as the vehicle moved forward. All you could sense was your husband's scent.

Somewhere along the lines, your consciousness finally slipped.

  
...

"Wake up," you heard a voice urge you.

Opening your bleary eyes, you assumed you had arrived at the mansion. Taking his hand as you were led out of the vehicle, you were instead shrouded in confusion as a series of rolling green hills with a dirt road leading up greeted you.

"Where are we?"

Seto named a small town in the outskirts of Tokyo. That explained the mountainous scenery shrouded by the veil of night, only illuminated by the silver light of the moon, surrounding you.

"Why are we here?" you mumbled, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

"You'll see," he responded vaguely, pulling you forward.

"Hold on, let me take off my heels," you resisted. "Otherwise it's going to sink into the mud and grass."

He turned around wordlessly, bending down, and sliding his arms under back and your knees, lifting you into his chest.

A gasp escaped you in surprise, your hands gripping the collar of his tuxedo.

"No Seto, I'm heavy," you protested.

"Please, I bench three times your weight," he dismissed, carrying you up effortlessly.

"I meant with the dress," you blushed.

The wind blew stronger the closer to the hill's peak. You watched his tousled locks, slightly disheveled from the night flutter in the breeze.

Unbeknownst to you, a content smile had found its way to your lips as you watched him.

"What are you thinking about?" he inquired watching you with thoughtful eyes.

"What?"

"You're smiling."

"You, mostly, if I'm honest," you answered sincerely.

A smirk found his lips, "I would have expected a different expression to be inspired by thoughts of me, at least presently."

You laughed lightly at the remark.

"Why would I feel anything but grateful?" you asked, surely confusing him a little, reminded of Mokuba's words earlier that night.

A bright white glimmer shooting across the darkness caught your eye.

"There's supposed to be a meter-shower tonight," Seto advised, noticing the confusion.

He set you down as he reached the summit, allowing you to stand on your feet. Over your left side, there was a cliff like descent. The cold wind brushed your bare shoulders, its kiss leaving your skin prickled with goosebumps; a shiver breaking across your spine. From the edge where you and Seto stood, you could see the brilliant silver stars melding into the series of dark hills which rolled into the distant mountains like ocean waves.

"Is this why you brought me here?"

"That," he spoke cryptically, "and something else."

You looked up in awe as falling stars began to take over the night sky, long silvery veils dragging behind them. It was as if the sky itself was falling, showering you in a rainstorm of silver.

You inhaled sharply, unable to contain your excitement.

"You're the best husband ever," you began to say, interrupted by him producing a small leather box you recognized the gold insignia of.

As he presented it to you, opening it, your eyes swept over the metal bands, following the gleam of light it caught across its arches; silver moon and starlight dancing on white and sapphire diamonds.

You couldn't look away.

"Seto this -" your eyes flickered up to meet his deep blue pools, finally breaking free of the spell the rings seemed to have cast over you, "why are you giving this to me now?"

"Exchanging our wedding bands I wanted to be a private affair," he stated.

A small smile turned up your lips.

"Does that upset you?"

"No," you spoke softly, your quiet voice swept away in the wind breaking against the cliff so it was barely audible, "why would it?"

"You were fighting with me this whole time about a wedding."

"I think I missed the significance of having a wedding. If at the end of the day I'm married to the person I want to be with, isn't that all a wedding is meant to accomplish?" you beamed up at him, his sapphire eyes glowing with falling stars. "I already have that."

"That's very mature of you," he commended, pulling you closer. "I gave it some thought," he husked, "how do you feel about a spring wedding?"

"You mean like next year?"

He nodded.

"For us? Are you serious?" you exclaimed, elated, leaping forward to embrace him. "Yes!"

"I'm not proposing to you, calm down," he remarked sarcastically.

"No but the answer will always be yes," you returned adoringly.

He wrapped his arm around your back, holding you against his chest. You turned your head to watch the falling stars in the navy sky.

"Did you make a wish?" you murmured.

"I don't need to," he paused, "not anymore."


	7. Redamancy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was uncomfortable to write, very uncomfortable, and I'm sure when you read it you'll realize why. I really went out on a limb here, wanting to explore my writing style, along with the dynamic of this relationship. To broaden my horizons, if you will. It's a little... perhaps very different from what you're all used to from me, and this story, but I do hope you enjoy none the less.
> 
> I ask myself what possessed me to write this, and if I even deserve to continue to write this series lol.

A sky full of stars and he was only looking at you.

"What would you have wished for before?"

"You're cold," he spoke distracting from your question, voice so deep it was hardly above a whisper, drawing away from you. He slipped off his jacket, draping it over the goose-bump prickled skin of your shoulders.

You didn't fight the smile which spread across your lips. You couldn't seem to bring yourself to look at him.

"Look at me," he demanded, plucking the smaller band from the blue velvet. Your eyes met as he reached for your hand, slipping the diamond adorned band on to your ring finger, stacking it against your engagement ring. "Whatever happens," he husked, "I'll take responsibility of you."

Your breath knotted in your throat, overwhelmed and overcome with a certain sense of bliss.

Colour found its way to your face, flushing your complexion, bright pink contrasting the brilliant sapphire of his eyes.

If madly in love could be defined, it would be the sum of how you were feeling in this moment.

He handed you the ring box, and you gave him a look which read perplexity. For a moment he looked to be waiting patiently, before his brows drew together.

"What are you waiting for?" he scolded, "the ring, put it on my finger."

Realization dawned on your face, as you quickly pulled the ring from the velvet cushion. You didn't know why, but you hesitated for a moment as you reached for his left hand, tears flooding your eyes, blurring your vision.

"What is it? Why are you crying?" He was obviously irritated by your sentimentality.

"I'm not crying - ah," your voice cracked. You tilted your face up, willing for the tears to not fall and smear your make up. Wiping away the droplets with your index fingers, you attempted to mend your broken composure. "A part of me really didn't think I would marry, or even be happy in a marriage," you confessed, wrapping your fingers around his hand, drawing it towards you. "I still don't know what I did to deserve you."

"You're cloying," he remarked, "stop that."

"Perhaps," you chuckled, sniffling lightly.

Looking up at him, you memorized him exactly as he was in that moment, engraving every detail of his face into your memory. His deep blue eyes full of falling stars as they looked at you, hair swaying lightly in the breeze, his fair skin glowing like porcelain under the moonlight. You could feel his warmth through his jacket on your shoulders.

"Thank you," you whispered, slipping the band on to his ring finger.

He didn't spare a second as he pulled you roughly into his chest again, embracing you tightly. You looked up and he placed his lips over yours for a fleeting moment; the warmth of his lips spreading through your cold skin.

"Did you make one?"

"No," you smiled, "I think I've used up all of mine with this." You lifted your hand, motioning towards your wedding band.

His lips curved up into what most closely resembled a smirk, fingers of his right hand tangling in your hair, pressing your face against his chest.

"If you want something," he rasped in your ear, "don't waste your time wishing on a dead star. Tell me, I'll get it for you."

You nuzzled your face deeper against his chest, feeling his warmth tingling against your cold cheeks.

"Dead star," you murmured, "what an awful way to see it."

"I'm only being realistic."

"Realistic..." you repeated the word, letting it roll off your tongue as if to taste it. It felt sour. "Do you think the combination of you and I felt realistic at first?"

"What?"

"Things don't need to seem realistic to believe in them."

His scoff you felt against his chest.

"I considered each factor extensively to be certain that you and I would be compatible," he asserted after a few minutes lapsed in silence.

"You knew every detail about my past?" you challenged.

"No," he admitted, "that was an unforeseen coincidence."

You could tell by the tone his voice carried that he felt it was a fortunate coincidence. Not to say that he was happy for for your misfortune, instead that the experiences of your childhood helped create a mutual understanding of each other's pasts and in turn how they helped shaped your present. There was a certain reverence towards each other in your relationship.

  
"I want you tonight," he spoke abruptly, having spent another few moments in silence, "I won't take no for an answer."

You couldn't remember the last time he was with you that way.

"Then take me," you spoke into his chest.

"We are a very long way from Domino."

"Can you wait that long?" you questioned, lips brushing against his as you peered up at him.

"No," he husked.

...

You handed him his suit jacket before you stepped into the car. He slipped it on before following after you.

The door closed with a sharp echo, and your husband ordered the chauffeur to drive. The dark partition screen rose up, separating you from the driver.

Seto's impatient fingers were at your zipper before you could turn to face him, his hot breath prickling your cold skin past your hair swept over your shoulder.

He slipped his hands under your arms, lifting you out of your dress, which, within the fairly confined space of the limo was awkward and uncomfortable. The hundreds of layers of white satin and tulle settled into an inflated pile on the floor besides the seat. You hadn't worn a bra.

He pulled you in, crushing his lips on yours fleetingly as if he couldn't help himself.

Your underwear followed, the black lace tangling on the end of your heel. You reached for your heel, but he snatched your hand away.

"Keep those on," he commanded tearing the lace away and discarding it atop the dress forgotten on the floor.

Your naked form was only adorned with the jewellery he had put on you earlier that evening, your white diamond crown of roses and your crystal stilettos.

He laid you supine over the backseat and fondled your soft breasts roughly, a stern expression across his features. The cool prick of his wedding band on your sensitive nipple as he brushed over it drew a gasp from your lips. His fingers rolled over your nipples, pinching them. He tugged at your hardening nipples, a sense of urgency to his touch. You writhe under him, moaning uncaringly with each flick his fingers dealt against your nipples when his middle and forefingers pinched and pulled at them. He leaned over, plastering his lips against yours, catching a muffled whimper in his mouth. As he kissed you, his right hand slapped your breasts, leaving a sting burning in the absence of his touch. A reedy and lustful groan smothered against his lips at his motion, begging for more.

"Do you like that?" he teased, pulling away, bringing his fingers to his lips. He licked his fingertips before slipping his hand between your thighs, rubbing your lower lips. You watched him with wide eyes, blushing a deep crimson. "Do you?" his tone grew harsher. You nodded faintly, drawing a smirk from him. The curve of his lips implied many things, none of which made you feel pure.

His wet fingers plunged into your throbbing heat, and the curves of your body arched, only to be held down by his hand pinning your form back against the seat.

He brought his fingers back up to his lips, licking them again, before burying them into you. He shoved them in and out of you in ragged motions.

A broken cry left you, feeling shockwaves ripple into your stomach from every surface his fingers scraped.

Your hands shot up to clutch the collar of his suit, gripping it desperately.

Wetness began to spill out of you, and while his fingers drove your senses mad, just the mere thought of him making love to you, or even the mere sight of him as he arched over you, hair falling forward, blue eyes darkened with need was enough to arouse you.

You could feel your hot skin covered in a sheen of sweat stick to the leather seat. Your husband's fingers still pleasuring your inner heat, your juices flowed out of you, down the side of your bare thighs, pooling on the pebbled leather under you.

He closed his lips over yours again, kissing you with an insatiable fervour. He chewed on your bottom lip harshly, certainly bruising it. Then his lips strayed, ghosting over the side of your face, leaving open mouth kisses over your neck, nipping at your soft skin.

You whimpered under his touch, hands wrapping around his neck, drawing him closer.

"That's enough foreplay," he growled. Hardly a few moments must have passed.

He pulled you up to straddle him. He unclasped his belt buckle, undoing his pants in one swift motion.

He pulled out his hardening member from his briefs, running his closed palm over the length a couple of times, clenching his jaw to bite back a groan as he did. Your eyes couldn't seem to tear away from the protruding veins running up his long shaft, breath catching in your throat.

Your hands leaving his neck, found his shoulders. Sitting up on your knees before him on the seat as he sat between your legs, he positioned himself under your entrance.

You had half expected him to ask you to take him in your mouth first. You couldn't be sure why you felt a sense of disappointment when he didn't. Had you not been good enough? Sure you had hated it, but perhaps experience would have helped shift your perspective. You desperately wanted to say something, ask him, but you chose against it.

He rubbed two fingers against your wet lips, stroking you teasingly to make sure you were ready for him for good measure. You mewled his name, resisting the urge to buck your hips into him.

He looked up at you smirking, "you're already so wet."

Unexpectedly, he hooked his fingers into you again, and your back arched, your breasts pressing against his face. You curved over him, toes curling inside your heels. He took your right breast in his mouth. His lips closed around it, tongue lapping over your hardening nipple, sucking it, nipping it, biting it.

You looked down in the midst of your erratic breathing, and your eyes met. His blue eyes spoke of all his needs, and the sheer dominance he exerted with the mere glint of his eyes sent a shiver down your spine.

Your thighs were already trembling, and this was just his fingers, and they were only playing at your entrance, caressing your walls shallowly. The only thing holding your legs from giving in, and falling onto your husband's lap was the firm grip of his left hand, supporting your back.

He pulled his fingers out of you as abruptly as he had plunged them in, bringing them to his lips which left your breast, drawing a thin string of saliva. He sucked on his fingers slick with your juices, never once breaking eye contact.

He ordered you to sit down onto his cock, and the moment your lips parted, his tip caressing your entrance, your breathing shallowed. Your husband could tell that you would never go any deeper if he didn't intervene.

His hands traced down slender form, ready to guide your hips.

"Seto wait!" you objected.

"What is it?" he asked, blue eyes narrowing, lacking the patience for your hesitation.

"Make it feel good," you pleaded, fearful of the pain that would surely follow.

"Sink onto me slowly," he advised, understanding where your reservations were springing from. You nodded obediently, lowering yourself over him under the guidance of his hands against your hips.

A strangled cry escaped you as he forced your wet heat to sheath his hard cock, but despite how far down you slipped, you could never seem to reach the base.

"You're so big," you gasped, your breasts rising and falling with uneven breaths, feeling the friction worsen the deeper you sunk onto him.

He obviously knew, and you were only stroking his ego.

Your head fell back as he pulled your hips down further, your walls stretching more and more. They continued to stretch after you thought they couldn't anymore, and his cock reached deeper into you still each time you were certain there was no space left in you.

You could hear your husband's groans.

"Seto I can't," you protested, but he wouldn't hear it.

"This is not the first time we've had sex," he snapped harshly, "I'm going to pull you down, and you are going take it."

You whimpered at his demand, hopelessly aroused.

He filled you with his cock. You could feel him grow bigger still inside you. As your walls stretched to accommodate his girth, even though this wasn't a new sensation, you wondered if you would burst. There were only two sensations you were acutely conscious of in that moment; his throbbing erection entirely buried deep inside of you, and his cold fingertips against your burning skin.

"How are you still so fucking tight?"

You could only gasp his name, lips parted as you attempted to familiarize yourself with the sensation of feeling so full. That sharpness; that tearing sensation you always felt when he entered you persisted, your knuckles turning white as you clenched the fabric of your husband's suit jacket into your fists.

He began with slow, deep, purposeful strokes as he began making love to you. Kneeling as you straddled him, your body collapsed into him, quivering at the drawn out friction he forced deep into you.

"How do you feel?" he asked in a grunt, "am I hurting you?"

You cursed breathlessly, a shudder breaking through you. "You feel amazing," you purred. You hadn't meant to speak those thoughts, but the words had slipped. Your skin prickled at how desperate you sounded.

You felt his laugh vibrate against your chest as he pressed his lips against your ear over your hair.

"Do I?" His playful undertone excited you, cheeks flushing at the taunt.

Through the revealing glow of the streetlights which poured in, punctuating the darkness regularly, you could see his smug expression clearly as you looked up.

"How are you still fully dressed?" you complained, feeling the cool metal of your necklace warming against your skin. Your crown weighed heavily on your head.

"I don't see why I need to have my clothes off to have my way with you."

His stubbornness would take you nowhere, so you reached for his bow tie, undoing it. As the black strip of satin fell loosely around his neck, he stopped you, fingers harshly gripping your wrist.

"Stop that," he growled, rocking his hips into you, increasing his pace steadily.

The sound of your juices squelching each time he brought your splayed legs and trembling hips against him, in that moment when he was entirely buried inside you, robbed your ears other sound; the steady sound of rubber rolling against asphalt no longer audible. The sound of thick juices mixing with each other married your breathy moans and your husband's deep grunts.

You spoke his name like a prayer as he filled you over and over again, your soft voice muffled against his suit jacket, nails digging into his shoulders.

"Look at me," he demanded, voice weighed with dark, pent up lust, "I want to see the look on your face when I make love to you. I want to see what I do to you."

You felt heat flooding your face and tightening in your chest as the meaning of his words grew clear to you. Seeing your naked form at the mercy of his will wasn't enough, he wanted to witness your emotions at its most raw and vulnerable; he wanted to see how your face flushed, red and desperate, see your expression contort wantonly as he stripped you bare of sense, undoing your modesty.

You could only imagine how you looked in that moment as he tore you away from him to look over you and the thought drew a shudder. His blue eyes were aflame, burning with more desire than you felt you could satisfy.

"Don't look at me like that," you pleaded, embarrassed, though it was arousing somehow.

Each jerk of his hips thrust you upwards, your breasts bouncing freely. You cupped your breasts with your hands.

"Why?" his lips curved up, smirk escalating to an unnerving chuckle as his hips continued to grind yours, thrusting himself up again and again into your wet heat. You could tell your words had encouraged him.

It made you feel impure and whorish, though you would admit, you weren't averse to the feeling anymore. You would never admit it to him. You could never admit to him how he made you feel, and that secretly, you liked it; loved it even.

You offered an incoherent whine, attempting to bury your face in his chest, away from his smouldering gaze. He wouldn't allow it, one hand raising from your hips, cupping your chin, forcefully holding your half lidded gaze.

"Tell me why you don't want me to look," he demanded again. It was useless. He could draw nothing besides disjointed nonsense from you. He chucked again. "This is the Nation's Fairy."

You could tell he hated that title. He only ever used it to taunt you when he fucked you.

"Seto please..." you whimpered, "you're the one doing this... to me."

His furious pace was unrelenting.

You cried out each time your hips met, his erection so deep that you could feel it against your lower abdomen. Your damp palms against your erect nipples was titillating, so lost in a heady frenzy, you unconsciously brought your thumbs against them, feeling yourself, kneading your own breasts as you rolled your thumbs against your hardened nubs.

Your head fell back, feeling a knot form at the base of your throat. You chanted his name, imagining him touching you. You felt drunk on air, as if oxygen wasn't reaching your lungs.

The sight of you playing with yourself, completely lost in ecstasy was indescribably arousing to your husband.

Your heart raced, it felt so good. You hadn't touched yourself before. You pinched your own nipples, tugging at them as you bounced on your husband's throbbing cock.

"You're so fucking hot when you touch yourself," Seto grunted, drawing one hand away from your breast.

"Yeah?" You whimpered, looking at him, eyelids heavy with lust. "It feels so good," you told him innocently, almost disbelievingly.

"Does it?" he chuckled, placing your hand over your clit, rubbing circles with your fingers. "Touch yourself."

You wouldn't dispute him, letting go of your inhibitions. If he wanted you to be his whore, you would be that for him. You suddenly wanted to feel dirty for him, filthy even.

You pressed your middle finger against your clit. You could feel blood rushing to your head, your ears, your hardening clit. Your husband's hard member continued to move in and out of you.

"Like this?" you asked your husband in a strained whisper, trembling fingers stroking your clit.

"Yes," he husked, ramming himself into you. Your head fell all the way back, feeling him hit your bundle of nerves, a long and strangled moan escaping you at this with the combined sensation of your fingers flicking your clit and rolling over nipples. He smirked. "Do you like that?"

You whimpered yes.

"I didn't realize you were like this when I married you."

You didn't defend yourself.

"Only for you."

"Harder," he grunted, satisfied with your response, "I know you can ride me harder. Show me how well you can please me."

Both his hands slid down, grabbing your ass tightly, forcing you up, before pounding you down roughly against him repeatedly when you failed to comply. His head fell back slightly, cursing your name. Your reaction was much more severe, a shameless and shrill series of cries which bordered on sobs leaving you. You pleaded and begged, though you weren't sure what you were asking for. You just didn't want him to stop. You were almost in tears, drowning in euphoria.

His cock sent shockwaves up your abdomen. It was all almost too much, almost, but your husband was skillful enough that he knew just how to control his movements so that it drove you to the edge of sanity without allowing you to fall completely.

"Shut up," he ordered, "and calm down," though he actually craved your moans, loving every shaky breath and noisy mewl he drew from you. He loved how he unravelled you to the core, how he transformed you, how needy you sounded when you called his name, how far removed you grew from your usual, morally guarded self. "You're going to come too soon at this rate," he scolded, pulling your fingers away from your hardened nub between your legs. He wanted you for longer, forcing himself to last longer than he usually did also.

"I'm so close," you sighed, breathless.

"You can't." It was an order. "Not until I say you can."

You could feel your stomach coil in spite of his words, a familiar sensation of ecstasy begin to numb your senses. You felt your head fall towards the roof, eyes beginning to roll back.

"Control yourself," he growled, "or I'll stop."

Dismissing his stern words in your frenzied state, believing them to be empty threats for the sake of bending you to his will, you paid no heed to them, both hands massaging your breasts again.

He suddenly stopped, panting heavily, "I warned you." His fingers digging into your hips prevented movement.

"Don't tease," you mewled, wrestling against his grip, irritation lining your tone, eyes pleading. Your whole body throbbed, aching for him.

You missed the amusement which flashed across his sapphire eyes as he watched the desperation twisting your face as you writhe pleadingly. "Bad girls who don't listen don't get to come." His voice was sinful, falling over your ears like velvet.

"You bastard."

"Don't test me," he barked raggedly. "Now beg."

If he wanted you to beg, to feel that euphoria, you would do as he told you.

"Please," you whispered breathily, "please let me come." You could feel a splintering sensation shoot down your thighs. "Don't do this. I'll do anything."

"That's my girl," he husked. "You're mine, and I can do whatever I want with you. Do you understand?"

While you were typically noncompliant and demanding in the relationship, you loved how controlling he was during sex. You couldn't get enough of how he dominated you entirely. Your body was his.

"I'm yours," you agreed in a whisper, "just don't stop," you breathed, "don't stop."

He loosened his grip on you.

"Ride me."

You pulled yourself up slowly, hypersensitive to the feeling of your inner walls grazing and clenching around his cock. You moaned.

"Good girl," he commended, his voice hoarse, "now sit back down." And onto him you did, complying, moaning again.

Your husband wouldn't move, blue eyes gleaming with amusement as he made you work for it.

Circling his neck with your hands, you let his erect cock fuck you, siting over him over and over, head falling forward. Eyes squeezing tightly closer, you increased your pace, feeling as if your insides would collapse in on itself.

"You're trembling," he noted, hands guiding you again.

"I think I'm going to break," your voice quavered.

"Good sex never broke a person," he lightly chuckled, "you're doing good," one hand brushed stray wisps of hair from your glowing face, "rock your hips harder, faster."

"I'm...doing it... as fast as I can."

This wasn't a good enough response, so he began to thrust his hips up into yours again.

You leaned forward, placing your swollen lips over his, "I love you," you whimpered against his lips.

His lips stretched in response. If he was smiling, it was a wry smile.

"Are you happy?" he inquired gruffly, pressing his forehead forward against yours as he fucked you, "being with me?"

That was an unexpected question to come from Seto Kaiba; the uncertainty and vulnerability in his tone contrasting his character. This realization was obviously lost to you, so far beyond you in your undone state.

"I've never been happier."

You pulled away to look over him as he seemed to be calculating something for a long moment. The look of contemplation was over in a fleeting moment and the next sensation you were greeted with was the air leaving you as your back roughly made impact with he leather of the seat cushions.

You felt your diadem falling away, your necklace slipping to the side.

Your husband hovered over you, his motions fluid, seamless and uninterrupted as he continues to pound into you. He leaned over, supporting his weight on his hand and elbow, fingers of his folded arm free to brush the stray hair out of your face, the other anchored on to the seat.

He made it so you couldn't move, though he was skillful enough to not smother you.

He brought himself into you hard; powerful, long strokes rendering you senseless. You could feel the tip of his cock circle inside you at the angle with which he ground his hips into you.

"Fuck," he cursed, his tone bordering on a moan. Your eyes darted up to meet his face. He did it again - moaned - more discernibly this time, "You drive me insane."

His tone was too much to handle, and you could feel something snap at how your husband sounded. Your hips bucked into him, and his cock reached deeper. You reached your climax before you could form the words to tell him, and the familiar sense of everything around you growing distant greeted you. You sputtered nonsense and profanities as your husband made you come hard. Your whole body felt light, almost as if there was no substance to your being. Streams of fire pooling in your abdomen shot up through your nerves, cutting through the feeling of nothingness. When your wits returned to you, you were reduced to incoherent moans and trembling limbs.

You fully expected your husband to scold you, instead surprised you when he planted his lips against your forehead tenderly.

"You did good," Seto husked, leaving open mouth kisses over your cheeks, over the curve of your ear and down the sensitive skin of your neck, continuing to bring himself into you.

He had seen the fear that had contorted your face, having done exactly as he had asked not to.

"I tried to hold on, I really did," you swore weakly. "Are you mad?"

"Of course not."

"I love you," you told him again, hands splayed over his clothed chest.

"I know."

He came some time after, grunting your name under his breath. You could feel his thick, warm seeds fill you completely, flooding every inch. It was a sticky wetness that was incredibly satisfying. He held still for a moment before collapsing over you. His cock remained buried deep inside you, keeping his semen from seeping out.

Seto moved against you with another couple of shallow strokes, drawing wet, squelching noises as his cock pumped against his own thick seeds he had spilled into you.

You felt the weight of his body gradually increase against your own tired form, his heavy pants pressing his chest into you further.

Seto's hot breath kissing your neck soaked with sweat was the last you recalled before darkness claimed your consciousness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was basically my attempt at writing shameless, unadulterated smut because well, I felt like it, tell me what you think :)


	8. His Addiction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Friendly note: I don't see anymore smut for a long LONG time. I'm 400% done with this shit. This is shit. Sorry. Enjoy. You can't say I didn't deliver what I promised in the prequel the reader and Kaiba going at each other. Buckle up for drama because that's all I'm actually good at writing.

  
You recalled, the way one recalls a distant dream, straddling your husband's lap, leaning against his chest, something warm and heavy you were familiar with draped over your naked form. Perhaps you were indeed dreaming, but he held you tenderly, one arm draped over your back, the other against the back of your head, occasionally stroking your hair. You remember feeling waves of gold light seeping over your closed eyes through a dark window. The smooth hum of a vehicle.

Maybe you were dreaming, because you woke up again. This time to light swaying. That warm heaviness still on your skin; your husband's jacket. You could feel that you were naked underneath it in his embrace as he ascended with you in his arms, up the stairs to his - no - your bedroom.

His gaze was immediately on yours, noting you were awake. His eyes, like his expression were impassive - as it often was.

He sat you on the bed, ordering for you to clean yourself up. There was a tinge of pride and accomplishment in his tone as he said this.

You walked out of your heels, shedding them in two separate spots on the bedroom floor as you made your way to the bathroom, your husband's trench coat still wrapped loosely around shoulders and dragging behind you in a train.

Slipping the navy coat off you in front of the bathroom mirror, you noticed it was stained with his semen which had seeped out of you. You wondered if that would upset him.

You could feel the thick muck sticking against your inner thighs. You had felt his seeds dripping down your legs with each step you had taken to the bathroom.

Appearing behind you, he embraced your naked form. He was clad in nothing but a towel over his lower half. You could feel a sticky wetness trickle down to your feet in a thin stream, clinging to your muggy skin. He ran his lips over the side of your neck. You could smell the musk of his sweat.

"I stained your coat," you told him, and he pulled away, snatching the trench partially pooling on the floor out of your hand. He held it up, appraising it with a critical eye, an unnerving smirk settling on his lips.

"I'll have it cleaned," he simply said.

"You're not mad?"

"You can make up for it."

His tone was disconcerting. Your instinct warned you of darker motives than his words let on, the exact nature of which eluded you, though you could begin to guess.

He dropped the coat, allowing it to gather in a pile on the floor.

"I'm not done with you," he whispered. You were turned to face him, lips tracing the curves of your neck.

Everything still hurt; soreness pulsating in you muscles, your thighs burning with a pulling sensation.

"Seto, you took everything I had, maybe tomorrow," you moaned, earning a dissatisfied growl.

"I wasn't asking for your permission."

"What you're suggesting is illegal."

He leaned in dangerously close, breath brushing your face, "Don't play hard to get. It doesn't amuse me."

"We just!" your voice cracked, finding his accusation ludicrous, "I still haven't cleaned myself from your - how am I playing hard to get?" You were infuriated. "I think I'll actually break if -"

"After depriving me for weeks," he husked, interrupting you.

"You were busy!" you defended.

"You were never home."

"Neither were you! And I have a conglomerate to run!"

"So do I," he blandly remarked.

"Fine," you conceded, albeit grudgingly. "Do what you want."

"That's what I like to hear from my wife."

"Subservience?"

"In the bedroom, yes." He lifted you against the marble counter, crushing his lips against yours, your legs splayed before him. His kiss was rough and messy, lips sliding sloppily over yours. "Touch yourself," he commanded in a growl against your lips darkened with his saliva, eyes motioning towards your thighs. "I want to see you pleasure yourself."

You hesitated, embarrassment flooding your cheeks red. There was a natural progression to these things; something your husband didn't seem to have the patience or tolerance for.

"I... don't know how," you whispered, looking away. You honestly didn't and wasn't certain you wanted to explore. Each instance your husband had attempted to broaden your horizons sexually, forcing you out of your comfort zone, you had almost certainly hated it.

"Have you never - "

"No," you quickly interrupted, blood burning your ears.

His forehead furrowed, eyes narrowing, "perhaps your title is fitting."

He wrapped an arm around your back, his other hand reached for yours, forcing your index finger deep between your folds. He held it in place so you couldn't draw it out when your walls spasmed at the cool touch. Your head fell back on to his shoulder, drawing a shallow breath into your mouth. He guided your fingers through the first few thrusts, predatory eyes boring yours resembling a frightened doe, forcing you to resist the urge to immediately recoil.

"Put another finger in," he ordered, voice deepening to a dangerous husk. His fingers still over yours, trembling, you followed his words, allowing him to drive your fingers in and out of you. You writhe at your own touch. You could feel his thick, sticky seed coating your fingers. His fingers left yours, lifting to caress your silken nipples, slightly hardened and begging to be touched, begging to be sucked. You husband complied. Your head fell into the crook of his neck as he held you, raw and reedy moans escaping you.

There was a certain sensation of titillation in having the most powerful man in Japan watching you pleasure yourself with his bedroom eyes, dark hair falling over them.

This man, your husband whispered things in your ear, dark things, dirty things, his unwholesome intentions towards you, his dark desires,how he planned to defile you, demanding you submit to him.

"I feel filthy," you confessed to him, eye lids growing heavy, earning a guttural laugh, "but it feels so good." He kissed your crown, finding your innocence and inexperience endearing, and strangely arousing.

"Fuck," He grunted your name as he watched you, his free hand wrapped around his now throbbing erection, towel fallen away at his feet.

  
Your thighs felt weak, trembling and spasming. He wouldn't let you come, pulling you off the counter and forcing you to stand.

"I'm going to take you from behind, and you're going to take it," he husked, turning you to face the mirror. Your knees buckled at the words. You would anything for him if he asked you in that tone. "I want you to see what I do to you."

Your eyes met your reflection's on the mirror; face already red and heated, desire unrestrained. Seeing the rawness of your own expression, you were mortified. Is this who you were? What was looking back at you contradicted everything you believed yourself to be, and it brought on in the edges of your consciousness an existential crisis. Were you allowed to be this way, even if it was with your husband? You immediately looked elsewhere, but your husband wouldn't allow it, fingers wrapping around your chin, forcing you to hold your own gaze. You couldn't seem to close your eyes.

He rubbed his length against your wet and burning folds, and your knees gave in. He held you up, pushing you against the counter. He spread your legs, one hand splayed over your back. He gave you no warning before entering you roughly. A sense of nausea poked at your stomach.

Your fingers dug into the marble counter, clenching the muscles of your thighs at the sudden fullness.

"It hurts so good," you moaned. You could feel him throbbing inside you, your walls tightening around his erection. His thick, protruding veins stretching your sore walls.

You heard your husband curse again, "I've been waiting to do this to you since you were barely legal." He forced himself in further, feeling how your walls tensed against him. "And now you're mine to do as I please."

Your body flushed at the thought of your husband fantasizing about you for years, wishing for him to act on all his pent up desires.

"Please," you pleaded breathlessly, "I'm yours."

"Of course you are, I always get what I want," he panted, "you were always mine."

He drew you towards him over and over by your hips, roughly squeezing your ass; running his hand over your reddening flesh before spanking it harshly; the sharp echo reverberating through the large bathroom. It stung. Your back arched forwards. He did it again, and it stung even more. Your heavy-lidded eyes met his reflection. He smirked, watching you the way a tiger watches a helpless rabbit; his message was clear, you were at his mercy. You couldn't bear to look at yourself. A third, distinct echo of flesh hitting flesh broke across the room.

You cried out and he hushed you.

"Shh. Be a good girl for me," he cooed, voice thick like velvet. He hit you again and again. You squirmed and screamed each time his hand met your bare skin. You wanted more.

His hand on your back reached for your hips, driving his cock in and out of you raggedly, the other squeezing your right breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers.

You whimpered, dissolving into pleasure, feeling the stiffness dissipate as your body grew used to him moving inside you as it always did.

Your nipples felt sore and burnt from all the attention they had received over the course of the night. One bruised a dark red and maroon from where your husband had bitten you. In fact, you wore a string of small bites turning to bruises he had left across your neck and chest like a garland, flesh blushing pink, waiting to turn black and blue the next morning. You wondered how you were supposed to conceal all the places where he had marked you as his.

You watched the dishevelled girl in the mirror as her husband made love to her, blood had flushed her body; her face, her bouncing breasts a blush pink. A thin sheet of sweat glistened on her skin, wild hair plastered over her face. Her expression had contorted, embracing the pleasure her husband gave unblushingly, without reservation, begging for more. She looked an utter mess with her mascara smeared over her tired complexion but strangely, you liked her. She looked free; unchained of societal expectations. You felt she was embracing her true self, unlike you.

The friction was too much. Your husband's groans filled your ears, your moans as they cursed his name in vain were like the notes of a fine tuned instruments to his.

"Fuck you're beautiful," he spoke in a rasp, "never look at another man like that, do you understand?'' You nodded faintly. He pulled you back towards him by your hair, the rhythm of his hips rutting into you uninterrupted, "understand? You belong to me."

"Yes...Seto."

The thought of a man this perfect finding you beautiful was absolutely maddening. He must have driven a few more strokes into you before you came undone completely, spasms igniting in your lower abdomen. Perhaps it was a result of being hopelessly aroused or because you were still sensitive from the last time. Your legs were no longer serving their purpose; suspended on your husband's arm as he continued to roughly fuck you from behind.

Seto had sworn at you as you came, and you were disappointed in yourself for not lasting longer. Your husband possessed too much stamina for you to ever hope to keep up with him, this you would learn to eventually accept.

This time it was actually all too much. Gravity threatened to claim you each instance Seto's arm around you loosened. Your arms spreading over the marble ivory counter, leaning forward, your breasts kissed the cold marble, unwittingly giving your husband a better angle to penetrate you.

A sharp intake of air through your parted lips drew your husband's attention

"Am I hurting you?" Seto inquired.

"You're starting to," you whimpered, hoping he was close.

"Come again for me," he husked darkly, pulling your back flush against his defined chest by your hair, the same hand falling to tug your nipples, the other fingering your clit.

You didn't know if you could, but he skilfully worked you up again, building your dissipated pleasure, whispering profanities and obscenities in your ear about yourself. He made you agree to them, spanking you and twisting your nipples, and you unravelled all over.

You practically melted into him.

He turned you to face him, pushing you against the counter, pressing cool marble against your flushed skin. You watched him burying his cock into you, and as you watched it disappear into your body again, your breath knotted in your throat. A rush of blood pounded behind your ears, your face burned. It was the most intoxicating sensation.

He lifted your left leg while thrusting into you, hooking it around his waist. You could feel him reach deeper into you, hitting your sensitive spot. You fell forward on to him, erect nipples rolling against his slick, defined chest, nails digging into his back, raking them over his toned muscles, over and over, sputtering absolute nonsense. You imagined it stung, especially given the coating of salty sweat over his back.

Instead he laughed darkly, "that good, huh?"

You were too far gone to feel embarrassed, wantonly moaning yes as you desperately clung on to him to stay upright. You accidentally caught sight of his thick erection as he drove it in and out of you furiously, and having witnessed that, the resulting sensation was indescribable. It was as if lightening was dancing with your nerves. You honestly felt a little sick, overwhelmed, wondering if you would lose consciousness. Breathing shallowly with your mouth, you looked up to him, pleasure bearing the same twisted expression as pain through your heavy eyes.

He looked back at you with hardened eyes, "you're so innocent." He wrapped his left arm over the back of your head, tangling his fingers in your hair, pulling you in, "stupid girl, don't look if it bothers you."

You had not forgotten his intimidating length or impressive girth, only, seeing something of that size filling your body over and over was terrifying. How was your body accommodating him at all?

"You're so big," you whimpered breathlessly into his chest. On your lips, you could taste the salty sweat dripping down his chest.

He kissed you over your undone hair, rolling his hips against yours, "and you take all of it," he husked.

Your whole body tensed then shuddered at those words, and he laughed.

"Please don't laugh at me," you whined between shallow breaths, earning another teasing chuckle.

The hand over your head slid down to squeeze your ass, his grip affording him the ability to move your hips at a more furious pace.

You ran your tongue over his pecs, unable to resist, feeling the salt on your palate.

He released a grunt low in his throat, seemingly upset by something. He lifted you against his waist before you could inquire what had brought him displeasure. Instinct led you to wrap your other leg around him, your nails scraping the damp skin of his back as he slammed his hips into you. You could feel sweat rolling under your fingernails.

"You're mine," he panted, "mine," he swore against your ear each time your hips met.

"Oh god..." you cried repeatedly in a strained whisper, unable to form any other thought, the pleasure he drove into you short circuiting your spent brain. The dull thud of flesh beating flesh punctuated by wet juices squelching echoing against the bathroom walls was distant to you behind the wall of blood beating against your ears.

You couldn't bear the building pressure and came again screaming his name, limbs convulsing violently. Your nails dug in to his back so viciously that you wondered if they drew blood. You fell limply against his moving form, spasming lightly. Your hand circling his neck tenderly, you laid your head against the crook of his shoulder.

"That's my girl," he commended between grunts as your rode out your high, holding tightly your weary body.

You felt his muscles clench all around you shortly after, nearly crushing you. He tore you from where you laid nestled against his shoulder, blue eyes boring into you seconds before his hot seed shot up into you. Entranced by his bottomless pools of blue, you held your gaze on his eyes as he filled you, his hoarse voice cursing your name.

He stood still for a few moments, returning your embrace, burying his face in your neck, his member still imbedded in you.

"Seto?"

"Give me a minute," he spoke in a chilling rasp.

He walked forward a couple of steps, setting you down on the marble counter, his arms still tightened around your small frame. Your protruding ribs and hip bones dug into his lean yet defined chest. You could feel hot puffs of air burning the side of your neck as he panted heavily, resting against you.

You knew it was good when he needed this long to regain his composure.

"That good?" you squeaked, mimicking his tone, though your current condition no better off than his. At least he could stand.

"You came twice for me, you tell me."

...

"Thank you," you said to him as he carried you to the shower.

"For?"

"For helping me like myself."

"How have I done that?" he inquired brusquely.

"You just do," you murmured into his neck, "you make me feel so secure."

He made love to you in a way that was so primal and animalistic that made you feel he needed you so desperately.

"I feel I've ruined an impressionable young woman," he disagreed.

"That may not be such a bad thing."

"Clean yourself up before bed," he ordered, setting you down in the glass cubicle, hands still supporting your small frame. Your bodies were starting to stick. "Can you stand?"

The instant your feet connected with the ground, you felt an electrical surge pulse up your aching thighs. Besides a sense of paralysis or numbness - the sort one would feel from an anaesthetic or overly exerting your muscles during exercise, you didn't feel much else, though the harrowing awareness that you would feel pain more acutely once the dopamine currently rushing through your system has worn off was rather frightening. You knew damage had been dealt, you could feel it distantly beneath the blanketing numbness.

You nodded faintly in response.

...

As you lay in bed, the sheets messily sprawled over your lower half, waiting for your husband to return from the shower, you developed a sudden craving for ice cream. You were debating on which flavour when the locked door suddenly clicked, handle twisting. Your eyes flicked to the door to be shrouded in darkness.

You heard the clicking of a pistol; you called for your husband...nothing.

You called again, more frantically, to be greeted with the continued silence. The approaching footsteps weren't his. With chilled skin and bated breath, you waited for what you felt was the inevitable; you knew how this would end.

  
You woke up panting, drenched in sweat to a dark room poorly illuminated by two glowing orbs of gold on either side of you at a distance.

It took you a few moments to realize you were sobbing, sharp convulsions shaking your small form. You were still completely oblivious to the figure leaning over you in the darkness. He clapped the lights on, concern etched on his face.

He hushed you soothingly.

"Snap out of it, you're awake," his tone grew harsher when you failed to respond.

"Seto?"

"I'm here," he assured, wiping away the beads of sweat on your forehead trickling into your eye. Your eye burned.

It was getting worse, you'd never had a nightmare while your husband was sleeping next to you.

"He's here," you cried, unable to fully grasp that you were awake.

"He's gone," your husband affirmed, voice descending to a whisper as he husked his next words, "I made sure he is. And this is why. It's over." He rubbed the sleep out of his eye, narrowing his gaze over you, squinting to focus his vision against the sudden brightness of the room.

"It's not over in my head," you sobbed disjointed, "it's never going to be over. It's like a broken tape on loop. It's all I think about, even when I'm awake - I think about drowning in that bathtub all the time..." your train of nonsensical gibberish dissolved into incoherent sobs once again.

Seto watched you with a critical eye. He wouldn't offer you any words of comfort, and your utterly distraught state blinded you from the calculating look in his eye and the wheels turning in his mind. Seto Kaiba was predisposed to be a man of very few words, and as forthcoming as he had evolved to be, in that moment, he did not know how to solve the trauma plaguing his young wife. He didn't feel more empty words would be the solution, so he refrained from the gesture.

He leaned silently over you, long fingers gently stroking your hair. You could feel the body heat emanating from him seeping through his shirt and soothing you.

 

  
"Can we keep the lights on?" you asked your husband, reaching for his forearm as he made to dim the lights again.

Wordlessly he slipped back into the sheets besides you, leaving the lights on. You turned on your side, draping an arm over his chest as he lay staring up at the ceiling.

He could feel you trembling softly, and he turned to return your embrace, expression remaining cold and impassive.

...

You wake up to find yourself held by your husband against his chest. He was awake already as he usually was, quietly watching you, presumably waiting for you to wake up.

He was pushed dangerously close to the edge of your side of the bed, likely by you.

"What's your schedule for the weekend?"

"I have the weekend off," you mumbled against his bare chest, "can you stay a little longer this morning?"

"I'm not going to work today."

"Oh?" you asked immediately perking up, "how come?"

"There's nothing that requires me to be in the office. The person I need is you and you're here, at home."

"Awwh, that's possibility the sweetest thing you've ever said," you cooed, pulling yourself up, lightly kissing his cheek.

"No," he said corrected, scornfully. "I meant the merger, we can draw out the specifics here at home."

"You're unbelievable," you cried, "Seto, I took the weekend off for my own mental sanity. Can you never take the weekend off like a normal husband?"

"Did you need me for anything else?" he inquired, voice somehow falling to an even lower register.

"Not particularly."

"Then that would be a waste of time."

"Spending time with me is a waste of time?"

"You know that's not what I meant."

"Then do something with me," you urged, peering up at him.

"Do what?" he merely drawled disinterestedly.

You smirked at your own innuendo; you hadn't meant it in such a way.

"You're possibly the only man in this country that wouldn't know what to do with me in bed," you murmured, tone remaining innocent.

"You've grown," he husked darkly, fingers tilting your chin to look at him. "You're begging for it. Was last night not enough?"

"Begging for what?" You feigned innocence.

"Don't play dumb with me," he growled, pulling you up with his other arm, lips meeting yours ferociously. You sighed against his lips, a moan escaping you along with it.

His hand slipped under your blush silk night gown, caressing your breast. His hot breath fell over the side of your face as he leaned against your side.

"Seto, yes," you moaned, urging his hand to apply more pressure against your nipple. As he played with your hardening nubs, they felt sore, but the pleasure which rippled like electricity drowned out the dull ache. He rolled your nipples between his fingers, pinching them and tugging them upwards. "Yeah...like that."

Your eyelids fluttered, opening and closing, offering you interrupted views of the white ceiling.

Your husband smirked, "Is this what you were always like?" His hand slipped away from your chest and the thin silk fell flat over your erect nipples. He slid his hands over your stomach down to your thighs, slipping between. "You did a good job hiding it."

"Do you not want me to be like this?"

"I don't think I could be with a woman who wasn't this way. It was my only reservation marrying you."

"What was?"

"Do I have to spell it out for you?" You gave him a quizzical look. His fingers stroked your warm folds, eliciting a suppressed moan. Your eyes never left his. His gaze was hard and authoritative. He sighed frustrated. "You didn't look like you had a very high sex drive."

You blushed a deep crimson, eyes falling away from him. Ironically, your mind thought it rational to hide yourself away from him under his leaned chest. His fingers delved into your heat and your hand shot up to splay against his chest, slowly creeping towards his back, squeezing your eyes closed, biting back a lustful moan.

He tilted your chin up to meet his gaze once again with his index finger.

"What did I tell you last night," he husked, "I want you to look at me when I'm pleasuring you."

"You're really too much," you gasped, feeling his fingers finding a rhythm as they pumped in and out of you.

"Am I not allowed to see what I do to my wife?" He was taunting you and how you behaved during sex, that much was obvious.

"You're sick," you hissed, grip around his shirt tightening, nails digging into his pecs as his fingers' pace intensified. He chuckled.

You hadn't noticed your head falling forward into his chest again. His left hand pulled you back.

He went to insert a third finger in and you winced discernibly.

"What's the matter?" he asked, stopping abruptly, mild concern etched on his face.

"It hurts - oh my god Seto it hurts," you gasped frantically, clutching his upper arms, hyperventilating.

"Calm down," he snapped, removing his fingers from you.

He threw the covers of off you, pulling it over him. Sitting up, he gathered the hemline of your slip nightgown over your stomach.

His eyes narrowed, "it's bruised," he noted.

Your husband was going to break you one of these nights.

"You should have been more gentle."

As exhilarating as you found affairs such as last night's, Seto was well endowed and you were rather petite, especially in comparison to him, so you supposed minor injuries such as this was inevitable.

"Why bother having sex then?" he groused, covering you again.

You burrowed yourself into his chest again. He released a grunt, as if acknowledging your presence, or rather allowing it.

"For the merger," he began to say, laying an arm over your back, and you groaned.

"Can you not?" Next thing you knew, he was going to talk about work during sex.

"What?"

"Don't talk about work in bed."

"Don't be childish," he argued.

"So...who am I sleeping with right now? My husband or the CEO of Kaiba Corp."

"I'm both. You do realize I don't cease to be one or the other?"

"Yes," you drawled blandly, "but it's uncomfortable as it is to do business with the same man that's fucking me senseless every night. It's too awkward."

"Well that's where we are at," he gruffly asserted, "you need to learn to be less sensitive. It's hardly any easier for me to make decisions that aren't in the best interest of my woman."

You shuddered at that, peering up at him "your... woman?"

He smirked, "do you like that?" His tone reminding you of your depraved affairs last night. His chuckle rumbled in his gut, "you're too easy to distract."

You pouted, disappointed.

Mokuba's words resurfaced in your memory.

"I do - love being yours I mean."

For one of the first times in your relationship, he offered you a genuine smile. It was faint, but discernibly present.

You pulled yourself up to kiss his cheek, leaving open mouth kisses -as he had done to you the night before, unable to help yourself - over the side of his face, his jaw, his warm neck.

You clambered over, straddling him, wincing as sharp pain shot up from your bruised pelvis.

You took a moment to gather yourself and he watched you with a glint of amusement in his eyes, anticipating your next move. Oddly though, you couldn't help but notice how he also looked prepared to catch you if you fell over the side of the bed, knowing your uncoordinated tendencies. You assumed that was his paternal instincts kicking in.

You leaned over, parted lips ghosting over the side of his face.

"What brought this on?" he inquired, a plain countenance to him.

You didn't answer. He allowed it for a few more moments before turning your face to meet your lips.

Just as you fell forward, lips landing on his, the aggravating vibration of his phone interrupted the moment.

"Don't answer it," you urged, hands rolling over his pecs. He tore his lips from yours, glancing over the caller ID of his phone lying on the nightstand. He furrowed his brows.

"I have to," he rejected, much to your disappointment, holding you flat against his chest as he answered the call. His hands rubbed absentminded circles over your back.

"Kaiba."

You heard a female voice on the other end.

Who calls a married man first thing on a Saturday morning? Granted, it was more likely that the person on the other end didn't know he was married.

Your patience began to wear thin as the conversation continued endlessly. You saw the exchange draw more and more of your husband's attention, his expression hardening. His hand against your back stopped. Eventually, your husband pushed you off of him without a word, slipping away from bed.

You observed long, red marks etched on his broad back. You bit your lip, that was totally you.

Having picked up a light blue robe, you watched him disappear behind the bedroom door without sparing so much as a glance, engrossed in the conversation.

So much for spending the weekend with your husband.

...

Sitting at the head of the dining table of the grand hall, you languidly picked at your food on the crystal plate before you.

The carved mahogany doors swung open and behind it stood your husband, dressed as he did for work. Your eyes ran over his navy suit, grimacing. Your gaze fell back blandly over the ravaged quiche on your plate, continuing to disinterestedly draw lines over the contents with your fork. You refused to offer him a greeting.

Approaching footsteps ceased behind the chair to your right and you finally looked up to meet his cerulean eyes.

His hand landed over the leather upholstered backrest of the heavy wooden chair, motioning to sit and you immediately stood up.

"What are you doing?" he growled, simultaneously perplexed and irritated by your reaction to his presence.

"Don't you want to sit at the head of the table?"

"Why would there be such a thing in our relationship. Sit down. We are not at a formal dinner and I don't recall this being the nineteenth century," he spoke derisively, taking a seat. You followed his lead.

"I suppose you're going to work," you spoke flatly, disapproval lining your tone.

"No."

"Really? Your suit tells me differently."

"I made arrangements to take care of it from home. I got dressed before the fact."

"Yeah," you heard a familiar voice call from the doorway, a mop of unruly hair greeting you when you searched for the source, "it's called he made me run around like a mad man around Kaiba Corp. on my way here from Tokyo."

"You should work for at least half of what you get paid for your title," Seto criticized, shooting a pointed glare at his younger brother.

The younger only laughed in response as he sat to your left.

"I see you've become the head of the household," he remarked humorously to you, "I'm actually surprised he let you sit there."

"Mokuba," Seto growled threateningly.

"Wrapped -"

"I will have you removed from the mansion."

This effectively diverted the conversation towards a different topic conversation - not one you were in the least bit familiar with - and you reserved yourself to listening to the brother's witty banter; which mostly involved Mokuba attempting in earnest to drive your husband to the edge of insanity with intentionally crude comments tailored to aggravate and inspire a reaction from him, though it always failed, each attempt dying against your husband's completely impassive countenance and dry humoured comebacks, like ocean waves against a beach. Though just like sea waves, he kept rolling out more, never discouraged.

Following their breakfast being served, conversation faded into the clinking of cutlery against plates.

"See me after this," your husband abruptly declared, turning to you, first to disturb the silence only punctuated by moving cutlery.

"Is everything alright?"

"You tell me."

Another few moments lapsed in silence before Mokuba rejoined the conversation, "you realize your voice goes deeper than it usually does when you speak to her? Which is saying a lot I mean - and yours higher when you respond to him?"

What a strange observation, you mused, fascinated by how perceptive the younger Kaiba was. It must run in the family, you deduced.

"Nonsense," your husband dismissed.

"No," Mokuba pushed on, "it's what happens when you're attracted to someone, you see - "

"I know how it works Mokuba," Seto shut down sharply.

A gentle smile broke across your lips.

"Seto tells me you've never played a video game," Mokuba continued, unfazed by his brother's hostility, though really that was your husband's natural disposition. You supposed Mokuba had to have grown accustomed to it to have lived with him all these years, especially all those years you imagined it was just the two of them.

You knew it was unfair and not your place, but a sudden sense of jealousy and loneliness overcame you. It was not your place. Suddenly, you felt like an outsider as you witnessed their relationship. You wondered if your husband considered you family, the way he regarded Mokuba, which, in reality was a stupid thought spurned through your own baseless insecurity, but you couldn't help it. It was indeed absurdity, and yet within the confines of your mind, it made perfect sense. You would never surpass Mokuba in your husband's eye. You've never liked feeling second best. You've never accepted being second best.

You heard Mokuba calling your name, concern weighing his voice.

Your attention returned to find your husband excusing himself from the table, his phone glued to his ear.

"Sorry, what?"

"I asked you how you came to lead a massive gaming corporation rivalling Kaiba Corp. if you've never picked up a controller..." he trailed off, eyes straying to the receding form of your husband as he disappeared behind the dining room door.

"Sorry you were saying?"

"Never mind that," he waved off dismissively, something seemingly more urgent occupying his thoughts. "You didn't tell my brother what I told you last night, did you?"

"Of course not, why would you ask me that?"

"Because he told me you were acting unlike yourself, and he thinks I had something to do with it."

"Well I didn't say anything, honestly."

He hummed in contemplation.

"What exactly did you do last night?" Mokuba inquired, "...to make my brother suspicious?"

Your cheeks flushed crimson as the question flooded your memory with recollections of last night's obscene affairs you had with your husband. The heat rising to your cheeks at the query was obviously lost to him as he awaited your answer, partially distracted by his own thoughts.

"I...did everything he asked, I guess, told him I didn't even need a wedding. He asked me if a spring wedding was good."

"He did?" the younger Kaiba's eyebrows arched in disbelief.

You hummed in confirmation.

Another moment of silence.

"On the topic of what we talked about yesterday," he spoke uncertainly, "...about how I said Seto doesn't tell me everything. Can I ask you something?"

You raised your eyebrows, urging him to go on.

You watched him mulling over his words, eyebrows drawing together.

"When you guys are... you know, does he let you touch him?"

"What?" You weren't certain entirely what he was referring to

"When you guys are you know..." he bit his lip, clearly uncomfortable, "...intimate. Does he let you touch him?" He rephrased.

Perhaps it was how formally he had addressed it, your shock was somewhat mild, though evoked none the less.

"Uhm...yes?" you knitted your brows, recalling how you had made his back bleed the night before, "why wouldn't he?" You paused. "And how else would we..." That one was definitely too awkward to complete.

"Even his back?"


	9. Don't Shoot The Messenger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally lied about the smut thing, I'm so sorry!

 

"Yes," you stated, thoroughly disconcerted, features twisting to reflect your perplexity.

Mokuba twiddled his thumbs in contemplation.

"Seto just has a lot of... scars," he declared vaguely, "he must really trust you."

"I didn't see any...what's that supposed to mean?"

"Psychological," he clarified, "at least now they are."

Your eyebrow hitched in surprise.

"He didn't tell me... oh my god," you gasped after a moment of thought, "I made his back bleed last night. He didn't say anything, is that bad?" You were growing frantic.

"You did what? Why would you do that?" he asked, shock and horror manifesting on his face, clearly not grasping the situation.

"Why do you think?" you sighed exasperatedly.

"What?" Still, nothing. You could practically hear crows cawing in the background of his head at the absence of thought.

"Why would one make their husband's back bleed Mokuba? What do you think we did?" you deadpanned.

You watched realization dawn on his face and the young man visible cringe.

"Okay, I didn't need to know that," he practically gagged, "TMI, TMI. Though now things make a lot more sense. You listened to what I said and went and slept with him?" his voice spiked and you hushed him. "Wait - no, don't tell me."

"You brought it up," you raised an eyebrow teasingly, "and while we are on the subject, in case you were wondering, your brother's good. A good lover I mean."

You swore you witnessed his skin crawl as he squirmed.

"Okay ew. I wasn't -- wondering. Why would you tell me that?" he begged to know, seemingly repulsed.

A corner of your lip turned up discernibly, a dark expression shadowing your face.

"Does my brother know you're not as innocent as he always defends you to be?"

"My husband thinks I'm innocent? huh," you shrugged, feigning ignorance, "I wonder what gave him that impression."

He laughed, making a passing remark on your slyness.

An uneasy silence followed the comfortable banter.

"I'm not sure if I should have told you that," he eventually said, mood turning sombre.

"I think it's the kind of thing I ought to know."

"It's good though," Mokuba added, assuming his usual air of nonchalance again, "it means he trusts you. Most women he slept with he didn't even let touch him. He wasn't even comfortable taking his shirt off around me. So," he laughed wryly, "that he let you do that to him without murdering you speaks volumes." He inhaled heavily. "I'm happy," he continued, "I never thought I would have this conversation with anyone. I don't know what you did to him, but I'm glad you did. I always thought he would end up worse off pursuing you. I'm glad you both proved me wrong. Thank you."

What he had said was a commendation. It was akin to a pat on the back for all the efforts you had invested in being a good wife to Seto, though of all the things he had said, all your mind had heard was the one pertaining to your husband's past relationships.

"Other women? What other women?"

"They were a long time ago," Mokuba dismissed, "it was before he saw you. They're all out of the picture now."

"Who were they?" you pressed, voice so quiet it was hardly audible.

"Secretaries mostly. I don't even know their names."

"Why secretaries?"

"He's always around his secretaries," he shrugged, only investing a fraction of his attention into his response, "it was inconspicuous and so no one, including the media would catch on to create scandals. He kept it all in the office. Even I didn't know which ones he was sleeping with, he was that good, you know?" You returned his words with a hard glare. That was deeply unsettling. "I wouldn't worry about it so much anymore." His eyes studied yours. "Oh no, you're worrying about it aren't you? I didn't mean it that way. I shouldn't have said anything."

He was always around his secretaries.

"He said there were no other women," you whispered.

"I think that's an explanation my brother owes you then, it's not my place to speak."

"Is he still?"

"What do you think?"

Your better judgement told you he wasn't.

"What also bothers me is how he never said anything about his scars."

You had told Seto of all yours.

"Think back, I'm sure he did," he contested, retrieving his vibrating phone from his pocket, and excusing himself from the table almost immediately as he answered it, leaving you with those as parting words.

You were left to your thoughts for perhaps a few minutes before the dining room doors opened and your husband stalked in again.

"Work on the merger with me," he ordered, "I'll take you somewhere in the evening."

"Somewhere?" you raised your eyebrow, momentarily stowing away your current thoughts. You couldn't entirely be sure where you stood, or even what you felt exactly in that moment to vocalize it to your husband, so you would do as you always did, allow them to simmer and boil until they would eventually rupture and come flooding out.

He grunted in response.

"Where?"

"Where do you want?" he asked, taking his previous seat beside you.

"I didn't think you were coming back, so I had your plate taken away." He nodded. "Kyoto."

"You want me to take you to Kyoto? Today?"

"I want to go to the beach."

"I have a private Island that's closer than Honshu" he offered.

"I don't want to be alone."

"You'll be with me."

"I know, I don't want be alone."

"With me?" he sought to clarify.

"No."

"What?" his tone scraped your ears like a dull knife.

"No, not like that. I just want to be around people."

"Fine," he began to say when your phone rang, effectively interrupting him.

You answered briskly with your last name. It was another scandal, and while not involving you personally, it was affecting your stocks. You sighed, attempting to excuse yourself from the table when your husband firmly held you by the wrist as you made to walk away.

"I have to go," you mouthed silently, but he remained unmoved.

"We are not done here," he disagreed.

"Seto, I have to go," you spoke sternly, covering your phone.

"I want you home early," he told you, quickly adding when your lips twisted to protest, "I'll be home."

"I'll try," you offered vaguely, practically snatching your hand from his as he released his grip. Your husband left completely oblivious to what had inspired your sudden episode of hostility.

...

The conclusion of your meeting found two board members idling in your office, practically draped languidly over the two parallel rows of plush blush chairs lining the centre of your office.

"She's getting a divorce," one informed, pointing to the other.

"Oh I'm so sorry," you offered, lifting your eyes up from the paper work sprawled before you on your desk to the aforementioned board member, Suki Ono, eyes only reading mild interest.

"Oh don't be," she noted flatly, addressing both you as well the director of marketing sitting across from her, "I can now spend more time with my boyfriend now I don't have to entertain my self-important in laws."

You tolerated these two for the most part, at least you did the director of marketing. Either way, they were both two very sensible and incredibly driven young women, constantly fighting the nauseating patriarchy your director board reeked of. What they did with their personal lives however, you could care less about. Perhaps that's why you had been so alone when Seto had found you, you were always subjecting yourself to self imposed isolation, never getting involved - consciously avoiding getting involved - with the lives of others, even when they sought after you with the details.  
You had been alone, though never lonely, having grown immensely comfortable with yourself and your solitude, willing to allow someone in only if they provided you with more peace than your solitude did, and Seto had provided exactly that.

And now, in the light of what his brother had disclosed, you found this peace slipping.

You didn't respond to her admittance of infidelity, eyes disinterestedly falling back to scan the endless lines of legal clauses which demanded your attention.

"We need to get you a boyfriend," she abruptly declared.

"I'm married," you flatly noted, not bothering to look up.

"So is your husband. To you, but you can't expect a man like Seto Kaiba to be pleased with one woman. He's not the type to be pleased with one of anything. I'm sure he has quite a number on the side. I mean look at his secretaries. They're like walking dolls."

"You speak like you know my husband," you accused, narrow gaze focusing on the imprudent woman.

"I know the type," she insisted, "I married the type. We can't even tolerate each other in the same bedroom anymore."

"My husband isn't like that," you defended.

She drew air in through her lips; an inverted hiss, "I didn't realize you two were involved."

"If you have the time to write a gossip column on my marriage Ono, might I suggest transferring to a tabloid publisher, there's a fine, second rate one down the street, I think your talents would be right at home and utilized most efficiently," you severely rebuked your board member, though insecurity had already spawned under the surface of your hard countenance. If anything, your insecurity had inspired a stronger reaction than your director's words had called for.

You were a perfectly poised nightmare when you wished to be, a truth many around you seemed to perpetually forget, despite being reminded of the fact on a daily basis.

You watched her shoot out of her chair, apologizing immediately, her spine curving to assume ninety degrees.

You trailed her receding form with your still narrowed eyes as she exited your office.  
  
...

You returned home intentionally late, you had a over a score of missed calls from your husband, and a handful of messages.

You were informed he was in the library. You had already changed into a white nightgown, and you didn't bother changing, seeking him out with the glass of white wine you had poured yourself in the bedroom still in your hand.

"It's too late to go to Kyoto now," your husband's voice drifted through from somewhere inside, the moment the grand oak door creaked open.

You wondered how he knew it was you. Perhaps you were the only one who sauntered in without announcing themselves first.

"Good, you're here," you plainly greeted, seeing your husband in the old library you had only visited the one occasion.

He was standing against a bookcase, eyes pouring over some tattered, hardbound book that was yellowing around the edges.

It was rare to see him reading, that is, rare to find him so engrossed in text that wasn't sprawled on his computer screen or an official document.

You noticed the glint of light catching on the glass the thin frames held in place.

"I didn't know you wore glasses," you observed, walking toward him, registering at the border of your consciousness how the white prosecco danced against the thin rim of your glass.

"Only when my eyes are strained."

"Why are you reading if your eyes are strained?" He snapped the book close pointedly, as if - though grudgingly - heeding your words. "What were you reading?" In reality you could care less. You were merely dancing around the issue.

He responded with some ancient Chinese war saga you only recognized the title of.

On a hopelessly distracted side note, you couldn't help but notice how - even more - ridiculously attractive those glasses made him look - at least for the few moments which lapsed between him placing the book back on the shelf and motioning to take them off.

"Keep those on," you found yourself saying, immediately berating yourself mentally, following.

You saw his lips curve discernibly into a smirk. Your thoughts were obviously as clear as day to him. The glasses, with his hair falling into them, stayed.

Navy was a good colour on him, you noted absentmindedly, eyes glossing over his untucked shirt, so was steel grey; the colour of his pants.

"Like what you see?" His voice a rasp, his smug expression was an insult to your stealth; you had thought yourself less obvious.

"We need to talk," you announced sternly, expression hardening. His expression followed in reflection.

"The last time you made that face you asked for a divorce. What is it now?"

You could feel his attention narrow in on you.

"Similar," you replied vaguely, his brows knitting tightly.

He poured himself a glass of whiskey before traversing the library to sit on the chaise lounge on the far corner of the room. You could smell the pungent bitterness waft over to you.

It smelled vaguely of a traditional Japanese medicinal herb shop.

"You've been off since this morning, I've noticed. What is this about?" he inquired, his tone noticeably fell a register. "And, is that alcohol in your hand?"

You walked to stand before him, standing at the base of the steps.

"Come here," he demanded, motioning to the empty space beside him.

You knew how this narrative would play out should you refuse, so you decided to forego the foreplay of the argument and delve into the bowels of the beast.

You stiffly sat next to him, almost as if this wasn't the man that knew every inch of your body, perhaps even better than you. The way he occupied the chaise, there wasn't much room to sit apart from him, in fact, you were practically sitting on his lap.

His unmistakeable scent embraced you, and you almost forgot what had been brewing in your mind all day long, almost.

Seto curved under you, slipping an arm against the tufted backrest, curling it you around you, the other holding the glass of whiskey. You couldn't help but feel you had put that there.

His eyes maintained a steel gaze over the drink in your hand, filled to the brim.

"What is it that you think I did?" he husked in your ear, and your skin rippled in a shiver against him. "Glad I still have that effect," he laughed breathily.

You couldn't bring yourself to say, and he sipped the amber liquid as if in preparation for the storm you would inevitably unleash.

Eventually, it grew clear you just wouldn't speak, so he set down his glass, half full, leaning into you.

He pressed a thumb directly over your nipple. Nothing else moved against you, just the pad of his thumb repeatedly pushing against your nipple. He continued the conversation almost as if the digit moving against you wasn't even his, your eyes fluttering closed, inhaling sharp breaths to compose yourself from his touch.

"I'm not in the mood," you rejected, and his fingers wrapped like vines over your chin, demanding your gaze.

"Yes you are."

Your back met the tufted olive suede. Your husband clambered over you.

The crystal stem slipped from your fingers, clear bubbles fizzling across champagne carpet.

His fingers splayed where your skin was the softest; your inner thighs spread before him, inviting him closer in spite of yourself.

"Stop it," you wrestled, "I'm having a shit day as it is without you doing - stop it!"

"You're stressed," he plainly observed, "You need release. You'll feel better after."

He rolled up the hem of your white nightgown, the edge of his lip sharpening darkly at the absence of the thin strip of fabric which would usually obstruct his view.

You wanted to remark that you weren't catering to his ease, but found yourself at a loss.

"If you don't want me, why are you so wet?" he taunted, "I've barely touched you."

The mere thought of him was arousing, his scent maddening, his voice surrendering your resolve. You momentarily forgot your sworn hostility.

His fingers dove into you and your curves arch, breath slipping from you.

The sharp intake of breath tore into the silence like a knife.

You could hear a smothered chuckle, its tone velvet as it reverberated through the empty space.

You would let him have it.

His fingers were replaced with something which aroused a sharper sensation. He reached deeper and you could feel him swell inside you.

As his hips rutted against yours, you craved the feel of his bare skin over yours. Reaching for the buttons of his navy shirt, you fumbled, the small buttons taunting your trembling fingers. The shirt hung open and your fingertips dug into his hard pecs.

One frilled strap of your Swiss dot embossed nightie slipped off your shoulder at the intensity with which his body met yours.

"Why secretaries?"

"What?" he rasped. You could feel sweat begin to dampen his skin.

"How many were there? How many women...that I don't know about?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Tears flooding your eyes, you confessed what his brother had told you, chest convulsing as you sobbed. His eyes narrowed to pinpricks, concern too finding his face - or so you liked to believe.

"I've never had other women. You..." he husked, "are the only one deserving of being called my woman. Everyone one else were expendable and barely tolerable."

"Were they pretty?"

"What?"

"Those other women, were they pretty?"

"I wouldn't have slept with them if they weren't."

Ouch. Though in defence of his rather shitty, blatant, brutal - call it what you will - honesty, you couldn't have - shouldn't have, expected The Seto Kaiba to have had such relations with unsightly women.

"I'm not talking about the women I've slept with while I have sex with my wife," he gruffly declared.

"We are already talking about it."

It was difficult to maintain a threatening countenance when your tone was constantly interrupted by your own, needy moans.

He clicked his tongue, cursing your name.

"You're not still?" you choked on a sob.

"I dare you to ask me that again," he hissed, drawing himself dangerously near, hot breath kissing your face, your hands under his shirt folding between your sweat slick bodies.

"Seto," you whimpered, eyes squeezing shut, feeling him press himself deeper, "right there," you pleaded, again for a moment forgetting your heated, verbal cross fire.

He grunted, complying, though the tenderness was short lived as he continued his onslaught. There were still the remnants of soreness, reminding you of the entanglements of the previous night. You winced.

"I expect you to hold me with a higher regard. How dare you accuse me of infidelity? I've been nothing if not faithful to you." His voice possessed a raw quality to it that would have been absolutely exhilarating and deeply arousing, had it not been meant to disconcert you thoroughly. It achieved its intended purpose, your words drying in your throat.

You saw doe eyes reflected in pools of blue suspended above you. You followed them as it moved backwards and forwards as he thrust into you harshly. You watched him diffuse the anger you had inspired through the furious frenzy of expended energy he forced into you.

You could hear the chaise lounge creaking under your movement.

You wouldn't speak of the topic again.

He leaned over, hands anchored on either side of you, kissing your cheek as if to reward your obedience. It was like being kissed by darkness, the aura he exuded was frightening.

You watched the ceiling, motionless, focusing on the repeating rhythm of his hips, reedy moans escaping you hopelessly.

You could feel yourself contract against him, tightening and throbbing.

You slid your hands over his pecs, slipping his shirt past his shoulders, fingers raking his hard biceps. He leaned closer in response, pressing his body against yours.

Your teeth sank into his shoulder. He swore your name.

The pressure pooling in your abdomen was unbearable, you needed release, so you begged him to take you there.

"What are you asking me?" he asked mockingly, wanting to hear you squirm.

"Please...please," you whimpered incoherently. You were so close, you could feel your nerves quiver.

  
"I don't know what you're asking for," he husked.

Sick bastard was going to make you say it.

"Make me come," you whispered.

"Louder," he demanded.

"I want you to make me come," you cried out.

Your husband released a guttural laugh, "I thought I taught my wife better, where are your manners?"

"Please...I hate you so much."

"That one's going to cost you," he smirked darkly, one hand clamping over your clothed breast, groping it so roughly that it bordered on being painful.

You vaguely recalled his lips meeting yours as your vision turned to white. It was a thrill akin to reaching the highest peek of a towering rollercoaster, the adrenaline building endlessly until your chest can swell with it no longer; offering you a sense of intense euphoria where you can no longer feel beyond it, so you feel nothing at all. Reality was beyond you when you cried out wildly, asking for him.

You consciousness returned briefly to feel your husband carrying you through a familiar hallway in the west wing, and more fully to find yourself nestled against his chest, head buried into the crook of his neck.

"They were merely a means to an end," he spoke in a throaty whisper against your hair. "I don't recall their names, and our affairs weren't consequential enough for me to divulge that information to you. It would only have upset you, and now it has. I'll be having a word with my brother."

"No," you disagreed, "it's my right to know. What upsets me is your insincerity. If I had sexual relations with a man and waited this long into the marriage to disclose them to you, how would you feel?"

"I was your first," he declared confidently, fingers gently stroking your hair. "You've never even looked at a man with a shred of interest as far as I'm concerned."

"I'm speaking hypothetically."

"Entertaining hypotheticals without basis is a waste of our time."

"You lied to me."

"It was in your best interest," he maintained.

"It wasn't the first time you've lied to me, was it?" He remained silent. He wouldn't deny it. "Were they in my best interest too?"

He hummed rather ambiguously, low in his throat.

"So what? Do as I say not as I do?" He stubbornly refused to offer you an explanation. "Would you speak?" you screeched, no longer able to tolerate his nerve grating silence. "And while you're at it, give me an unambiguous answer to whether you're screwing one of your current secretaries. I should have thought it odd that they all looked like runway models with an unregulated dress code. Why did Sasaki actually leave? Did she refuse to fuck you?"

"Watch how you speak to me," he hissed, voice climbing to a chilling roar unlike you've heard before, "What would you like to hear?"

"The truth. And the answer to my questions, preferably."

Your nerves had hardened, or rather numbed over after sex.

"The last one was over four years ago."

"You expect me to believe that you've been abstinent for four years - longer than four years? You? The man that's so sexual voracious that he forced me to sleep with him three times in two days? Seto, you're insatiable - inexhaustible," you pried his hand away from straying past your lower back, "even now, and we just -"

"Yes."

"Yes what?" you practically bit, grinding your teeth.

"Yes, I expect you to believe that."

You scoffed, and his hand against your hair stopped.

"Have you paused to consider," he drawled, "that perhaps it's the sex on offer that I crave rather than sex in general." It was chilling to hear him being so frank, despite him being that way so often, if not all the time - so perhaps, you deduced, it was the topic of conversation that was especially highlighting the sensitive of the topic he was undertaking so rawly. "In other words" he continued, "it's not the act, it's the woman."

You could feel your heart clench.

"Seto," you breathed.

"I'm not screwing - in your words - any of my secretaries," he assured, voice carrying an edge to it, "I will not destroy this family that way. Infidelity is the one thing that is unredeemable in my eyes. It is the one thing that can make me turn against even you completely and this is the last time I will tolerate you baselessly accusing me of it. I understand given your upbringing you may find it difficult to believe but not all men are unhappy in their marriages. We are not all looking elsewhere."

You listened, though not entirely concentrating on his latter words, too elated - childishly - by his words preceding.

"Are you listening?"

You responded with a distracted hum.

"The most trifling things upset, distract and make you happy. I worry of the consequences had you ended up with someone else."

"You think I'm a good woman?" you purred, curling up closer to him, all the while hearing the part of your brain not impaired by sex berating you for your seemingly intoxicated behaviour.

"You're good woman," he affirmed, his serious tone contrasting your drunken one.

"Sasaki," you spoke after a few moments, "why did she leave?"

"She didn't leave," your husband gruffly corrected, "the deranged bitch took her shirt off and tried to get on top of me and I had her escorted out by security."

"Oh Seto," you whispered, "I'm so sorry."

He didn't respond, he also didn't need the in-genuine, mechanical, superficial pity society had programmed into you.

You nuzzled closer to him, tightening your arms around his form. He returned the gesture.

"Were they all secretaries?"

He sighed, "There were a few girls from programming through the years." His tone was frank.

"I see...were they better at it than me?"

"What?" he growled sharply.

"At what we did just now."

"Sex?" he questioned bluntly, "they just had more experience than you."

"So they were."

"I just told you," he snapped, "you may not know what you're doing, but there's no comparison. Those relationships were purely physical. As my wife, I expect you to have more confidence in how I regard you."

You allowed for his words to soak in.

Your legs had grown sore, your lower abdomen throbbing; it was reminiscent of the first time you had been with Seto. This time, you had likely worsened the injury you had sensed earlier that morning, the one you had believed had healed. The pain reminded you of something, and you grew immediately somber.

"Is your back alright?"

You couldn't see his face but you could hear perplexity in his hesitation. You could feel his Adam's apple move against the side your face as he began to speak.

"It was bleeding if that's what you're asking, it's not your first time," he noted blandly, allowing cold air to graze your face momentarily in his absence as he reached for his phone vibrating against the nightstand.

"No," you hesitated, unsure how to string your words, "what I'm trying to ask...is how is it that you let me touch it?"

"What did my brother tell you?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you didnt mind me taking the liberty of giving Seto glasses here.


	10. Telltale Winds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for being so awful with the comment section and the updates being on the wishy-washy side. Just want you all to know that I am typing all of these - the past six or seven in fact chapter on my phone as I'm travelling. Yeah...I totally gave up on winter and travelled to the tropics because I had a terrible September and I jumped ship halfway. ...lol because sunburns and unexpected pouring rain is so much better. Why are Mosquitos so massive here???
> 
> Anyways, I'm trying to be consistent with updates for all of you, do let me know if you feel I'm slipping. 
> 
> I do have a fairly heavy plot planned but I am wondering if it would be interesting to all of you. We'll see I suppose.

You cowered at the tone, bracing yourself against his chest, fingers tightly wound into fists around the fabric of his shirt.

"I'll call you back," you heard him say to whoever was on the phone. He tilted your chin to look up at him with two fingers. "What did my brother say?" He repeated, stressing every word.

The earlier aura of his you had witnessed as he made love to you; the one that exuded sheer terror reigned over the space again.

"Seto I'm sorry," you squeaked, crushed by his glare. His arm around you tensed and tightened.

"That's not what I'm asking you."

You shook your head, unable to produce coherent thought, "I just - he said - "

He sighed exasperatedly, closing his eyes for a moment.

"How much do you know?" he rephrased.

"Nothing - he just asked me if you let me touch your back when we have sex."

"He asked you what?" His voice snapped in a way which resembled a dry tree branch would, the raspy crack echoing through the room. "That's not something appropriate for him to ask you. What I do in the bedroom with my wife shouldn't concern him."

"I think he was just concerned for you," you managed to string your words somewhat coherently, "he said you didn't let the other girls touch you at all."

"I didn't."

"Why was that?"

He pressed against the bridge of his nose, tightly closing his eyes as he sighed again, "let's not have this conversation."

"Why can't I touch your back Seto?"

"Touch?" he snapped icily, "I let you gash me with your claws regularly!"

You would have been offended that he called your well manicured nails claws had there not been a more tension inducing issue.

"What did he do to you?" you ventured brazenly into territory you knew you weren't welcome in despite him constantly assuring you otherwise. Your voice was a whisper. You played with the undone buttons of his shirt, gaze fallen away from his face at the absence of his fingers cocking your face up to meet his. You could sense him stiffen all around you.

You felt him shift his head down towards you, hair rustling against the pillow.

"My step-father?" his deep voice was closer than you had expected it to be, startling you.

"Yes."

"Why do you insist on knowing everything there is to know about me?"

You knew you were treading cracked ice. You could feel the freezing water sting your feet. With your husband, one was not given a second chance to make a first impression. You also knew with certainty that you needed to take ownership of your answer whatever it may be, because the man had the senses of a bloodhound for fear and doubt.

"It's my obligation to know," you attempted to emulate him, "I can be a better wife to you that way."

"You're doing fine as it is."

"Tell me."

"Drop it," he threatened in a rolling hiss.

"Seto!" you finally met his gaze. His eyes were menacing. "You told me your life doesn't have boundaries for me, but it feels like I've hit one."

"You're beginning to get on my nerves. Forget whatever Mokuba told you, it doesn't apply to you so it shouldn't concern you. Clean yourself up and get ready for dinner."

"I already had a shower before I came to find you and it's midnight, what dinner? I already had dinner."

"I'm more concerned by what's likely running down your leg by now," your husband growled, "and I haven't had dinner, waiting for you to get home from work."

"Well go have dinner with all the things you keep from me, I'm sure that would fill up the chairs around the table nicely."

"Why are you such a child?" he roared, "it's my responsibility to protect you. What I keep from you is done in your best interest."

"You can ask my best interest to join you for dinner then."

"You're being petty. You want to be a good wife? Why don't you start worrying about if your husband has eaten or not? The way I do for you. You're constantly asking me to practice caution in how I address things in this relationship, why don't you take a page from your own damn book?"

You couldn't understand how a man could be so scathing in his speech while holding you so tenderly.

"You said I was your life's companion," you challenged, "and I assume that means you see me as an equal - "

"And you said I was a father figure to you," Seto harshly interrupted.

"No, I said you were a very strong pillar in my life."

"That's the same thing. I acknowledge you're a formidable rival and now partner in the corporate world, but mentally you have a lot of growing up to do."

"And it's your job to decide when and when not to control me?"

"It's my job to guide you so you grow into a respectable young woman."

"Don't patronize me. I'm not the female version of Mokuba, you don't need to nurture me, your paternal tendencies I don't need in this marriage till we have children."

"Your temper which is prone to fly off the handle at any given point tells me otherwise."

"Because my husband is an asshole!"

"You're only making my point"

"And you're still an absolute ass."

That earned you a guttural chuckle, though it was so displaced that you wondered if you were having the same conversation.

He placed a hand over your head, tousling your hair. It was a gesture so unlike himself that it disconcerted you thoroughly and you stiffened.

"I forget how young you are sometimes."

"You're really not going to tell me. I thought we were closer than this. That's disappointing from the man I considered my soulmate."

"Soulmate?" he sounded genuinely surprised.

You hummed in response, "it also means you're marriage material. At least by my definition. This is where you call it childish and cheesy."

"Is it?" he laughed lightly. "I must have grown accustomed to your ridiculous sentiments."

You hummed again, leaning your forehead against his chest. You had grown to not take offence to him constantly calling your affection ridiculous.

He would never tell you that he had never expected to hear such a deep and intimate declaration of your affections for him.

"I think I pulled something," you told Seto, feeling the soreness intensify as you attempted to curl into him. "You'll need to leave me alone for a while."

His eyes studied you as they attempted to gain an understanding of your condition.

"Do we need to see the gynaecologist?"

"No, it should be fine."

"This is why I asked if I was hurting you."

You merely grumbled as you rubbed your cheek against his exposed chest.

"I still flinch sometimes when someone so much as raises their voice at me," you began abruptly before you could decide against it yourself. It was the equivalent to counting to three and jumping on two. You hoped your sincerity would perhaps inspire similar sentiments in your husband, or at the very least, comfort him in the knowledge of mutual understanding. You could feel the fingers tangled in your hair pause for a fleeting moment before resuming their circular motion. "Even you sometimes, who I know would never." Your words were barely audibly, partially smothered against his chest, though mostly as they were spoken in a murmur. "I'm sure you've seen the scars. Like salt in the sea, these things become a part of your bones, and no amount of surgery or foundation, fame or fortune or accomplishment can make it vanish. You can try to bury it deep but in the end..." you heaved a weary sigh, allowing yourself to mend your composure and you felt your husband's grip tighten around you. Confessing the burden your childhood had forced you to carry afforded you a sense of liberation and lightness, almost if in small doses with each word, you were deny your past the power it held over you. "I was just a child she held a deep-seeded grudge against, and utilized every opportunity to openly, violently express it. It took me a very long time to accept that what happened wasn't my fault or because I was unlovable, even into this marriage, even now, with you, I find myself wondering what you find desirable in me as a person...because I don't see it myself."

You could feel his lips press against your hair. He allowed a few moments of silence to pass to ensure he had allowed you to finish speaking.

"I think that's your step-mother speaking. You're an admirable woman and deserve to give yourself more credit," he spoke in a solemn yet gentle tone. "'I suppose you're waiting for me to reciprocate your confession."

"I would like that...though what I said wasn't said with any expectation of receiving anything in return."

  
For a very long time, he wouldn't say anything. You almost grew convinced that this was his answer and as your eyelids began to grow heavy, his words cut through your lucid state.

"I was raised with many expectations and didn't always rise to meet them by my step-father's expectations...and there were...consequences. From your experience I'm sure you can assume what they were. You belong to me and you touching my back doesn't concern me, especially now that the scars on my back are ones you left me."

His words, even ones that bared his soul had an effect similar to a stinging slap across the cheek.

"And you belong to me," you cooed, pressing your lips against the hollow of his throat, digging your fingers into his back in an embrace, wanting to draw attention away from the ominous subject.

"You're sickeningly sweet, stop that."

"You said the exact same thing."

He merely huffed in response.

 

You had woken to an empty bed, the warmth lingering under your comforter beside you making you aware that your husband must have only just left. A good wife would have followed him, concerning herself with his dinner, but you told yourself he had hired help for that.

Instead you immediately reached for your phone, calling an executive attorney of your legal department.

You trusted Seto with your life, but you wouldn't trust him with your combined empires, rather, you couldn't trust the women he's slept with and gamble your future. You had witnessed how excessive trust could bring a marriage to ruin. You had heard of how your mother had followed your father as if he was her faith, only to have him burn it to cinders. Of course, trust was fundamental in a relationship; it was what any stable marriage was founded upon, and yet blind trust in the absence of watchful eyes and accountability led to moral decay, you believed.

You had had another shower - a cold one - by the time your husband returned to the bedroom.

"This will sound a little obsessive," you warned as he walked around the bed to his side, "but I want the names and personal information of all the women you've had sexual relations with."

"What?" his voice snapped violently, grating your ears like unused sandpaper. "Why?"

"I'm going to have each one of them investigated. I don't want some tramp showing up on my doorstep with a child after the bastard's turned eighteen claiming they're the heir to your empire."

"Don't you think I've done that?" he snarled. "I was obviously careful, I also used protection," your husband assured.

"You got me pregnant after having known me for four months into our marriage. You also have a certain obsession with throwing caution to the wind and - "

"That's only with you because you're my wife," he sternly asserted, bringing the covers over him as he returned to your side.

"I want the names on my desk," you insisted, "or you risk destroying this marriage."

"What the hell happened to you while I was away? You were fine when I left you."

"I gave it some thought, spoke to a lawyer."

"You spoke to an attorney regarding my past sexual relations?" The man was obviously livid.

"I didn't say it was you specifically."

"Who else would you call a lawyer regarding at two in the morning? Child, do you think?" his voice had boiled to a fever pitch. "This is exactly why I kept it from you, because I knew you would overreact this way."

"It shouldn't offend you if you have nothing to hide. Also, if you did conduct an investigation on each of them, you should have no problem compiling their information easily. I want all of them Seto, without missing one. You may think I'm innocent and a child but I will find out if you lie to me, and I will become your worst nightmare, because believe it or not, while I can't take you down, I can destroy the both of us in the process. Don't test me."

"Are you threatening me?" his voice was dangerous.

"Is that what it sounded like?" your voice held a mellifluous tone as you pulled yourself up to meet his gaze, pressing your lips softly against his. He allowed it, blue eyes fixed on yours as he kissed you back.

"I'll have the documents forwarded to your desk on Monday," he conceded, "but never speak to me in that way again. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Seto," you agreed rather subserviently.

You knew that for the greater part, he had only conceded because of his affection for you, and yet you also knew, much to your satisfaction, that somewhere deep beneath that affection, even Seto Kaiba was apprehensive of spiting a woman as powerful as you.

"Come here," he growled, pulling your back flush against his chest. He accidentally brushed his knuckled over your nipple as he adjusted you against him and you shivered rather animatedly. Satisfied by your response, he repeated the motion several more times, drawing a soft mewl from your lips. "Good girl," he chuckled, before ordering to go to sleep.

...

The sharp chirping of birds outside in the coniferous forest surrounding the mansion roused you. You found yourself Seto's arms, a dampness gathering at the hollows of your collarbones and down your back where your husband was pressed against you. The lighter sheets still seemed too heavy for the warm season. You could feel his hot breath grazing your skin, his arms around you had adjusted to be awkward in his sleep, one weighing heavily over your sore hip, and the other folding suffocatingly tightly over your breasts. You deduced that his even breaths meant that he was still asleep, which was incredibly rare as he seldom slept longer than you.

You had barely fluttered your eyes open, and you immediately felt stirring behind you, a warm pair of lips pressing against your ear.

"Morning," he rasped, his throaty morning voice electrifying you.

"Morning," you squeaked back in surprise, almost as if you hadn't woken up to this man several dozen times already.

His grip loosened and you turned over to face him, eyes finding his bare chest. You shifted closer to him, and he lifted his head to place his chin over your crown, hands still circling your form.

"Draw up the contract for the merger with me," were the first words that left your husband's mouth following his greeting.

You swallowed the groan which swelled in your throat, biting back the scathing remark which instinct almost let slip.

"Does that mean you're staying home then?"

He grunted yes.

You couldn't think up a justifiable reason to evade his request.

"Stop thinking of a reason to get out of this," he read your thoughts, "I know you have nothing on your schedule."

He wouldn't allow you to defend yourself as he passionately drew your lips with his own into a kiss. It was long and demanding, and he eventually separated from you with a thin string of saliva connecting your lips with his.

The rest of the day was not so affectionate, an air of corporate hostility reigning over your husband's study as the two of you drew up the clauses for your merger agreement. Tensions ran dangerously high as negotiations in favour of each of your respective corporations inspired animosity and personal relations entangling into the situations brought on strong vocabulary.

Your husband was obviously ruthless, though even more so than you had anticipated. He was borderline tyrannical in how he suggested the terms and was infinitely more intimidating than he was in bed, which in itself spoke volumes.

Your patience with his attitude had grown thin fairly early on and your own temper which was more often than not on a short leash had flared and as expected collided with his in the most brutal possible way.

Dinner found an uncomfortable silence cloaking the room and you excused yourself half way through.

As Seto slipped into bed beside you that night, you forced yourself to separate business matters from personal affairs and turned around to embrace him. He returned this embrace wordlessly, even placing a kiss against your hairline and for a moment the two of you appeared to have reconciled. This peace lasted but a moment before your husband made a scathing remark of a key marketing strategy you had proposed, and all bliss quickly dissolved into unsalvageable contention. The man had no idea what he was talking about.

> If this was any indication of how the rest of the partnership would proceed, you worried for the future of your marriage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional note, I didn't want to make the fallout from all the crap going on as bad as they weren't in the prequel because they have grown attatched to each other and that would just undo all the relationship development. So that's why it didn't go to hell as fast as many of you probably assumed it would :)


	11. Fragments of Seasons Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So slightly shorter, duller, transitional chapter. This is more mundane of them going about being a married couple. The whole chapter is conversation about one thing or another and just explores good old relationship development. 
> 
> This chapter needed to happen for the sake of getting to the point I'm trying to get to but I hope you appreciate Seto dealing with a traumatized, and possibly pregnant wife who's just so much younger than him and a great deal more sensitive. 
> 
> Just a quick side note, if you've noticed, I take slightly longer to get to longer comments, just because they deserve a little more love :) I absolutely love the long essays and do really appreciate them, and I hope you understand why I sometimes take longer to respond to them. Keep them coming, they truly do keep me going :D

You couldn't be certain how the argument had ended, if it had ended.

Your vision obscured in the room lit a deep navy, you could distinctly feel a weight fastened to your back restricting you. You were using him as a body pillow, knee folded and hitched over his legs. You could feel your body rise and fall with his chest, his body heat seeping through your nightgown.

Pride dictated that you remove yourself at once, rolling off of him as discreetly as your current position allowed, and your dignity couldn't commend you for trying.

"Comfortable?" a smug voice greeted you from above, and you could only sink further into him with embarrassment.

"Not really."

"Could have fooled me."

How dare he make you swoon so early in the morning - or so you assumed it was - with his unnecessarily deep voice. Rude.

"Don't you have to go to work?"

"Do you want me to go to work?"

"What time is it?" you mumbled, realizing you had no concept of the time.

"Sometime past two." You heard a distinct clicking noise followed by the light at the corner of your eye fading as he set his phone back down on the nightstand.

"Why on earth are you awake?" you grumbled, realizing you've had hardly two hours of sleep.

"You insisted on settling yourself this way."

You couldn't begin to imagine how you had come to orient yourself that way, sprawled over his side of the bed, forcing him dangerously close to the edge.

"You don't look entirely displeased," you teased.

"I never said I was."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. You barely get enough sleep as it is," you spoke barely above a whisper.

He grunted dismissively, peering down at you through the mess of brown hair falling into his eyes.

"Seto - sorry," you croaked, interrupting yourself and climbing over him, "I think I'm going to be sick."

You could feel bile climbing your throat, and you hardly reached the bathroom before emptying the contents of your stomach, which as it happens was just hydrochloric acid as you had passed up on dinner.

"I knew this would happen when you skipped dinner," you heard an acutely aggravated voice speak from a distance behind you.

You couldn't form a coherent enough thought to counter him.

It was simultaneously fascinating and infuriating how he possessed zero empathy at times such as this.

Eventually you fell against the adjacent wall, sinking to the floor.

"I'm sorry?" you rasped an apology in irritation, "what would you like to hear?"

"It's yourself you should be apologizing towards."

"At least there wasn't any blood that time," you spoke more to yourself, "hopefully it's not morning sickness again."

"What?" his voice cracked across the large space, echoing off the polished marble.

"Nothing...I'm just not on birth control right now," you spoke hesitantly, as if speaking slower and softer would render your words incomprehensible.

"You what? Have you lost your mind? What happened to the prescription you were on?"

"I thought you wanted kids?" was all your muddled brain could manifest. It was an honest inquiry derived from sincere curiosity, only half disguised as a snide remark, though in your current condition you couldn't be sure if it had conveyed either.

"I do," he affirmed, "I'm in a position to have children. At twenty one, are you?"

You remained silent, closing your eyes as you let your head fall towards the ceiling, willing for what felt like trails of fire burning up your throat to subside.

"What I want is hardly the concern then," your husband continued in a harsh growl. "Why are you off your prescription?"

"It was making my acne worse."

"It was making your acne worse?" he repeated the words slower as if it was the most idiotic thing he had ever heard.

"Yes."

"Why would you take such a risk? You should have told me."

"I took the morning after pill. Relax."

"Do you not realize the severity of the possible repercussions?"

"Can you bank this screaming sesh? And...I don't know...compound it together when and if we find out that we are actually expecting?"  
  
"Are you - " he sighed exasperatedly, catching himself before any scathing words escaped, "get up, you need to eat something."

You buried your head in your folded knees, grousing incoherently, though a certain string of words were fairly audible, "carry me."

"Don't be ridiculous. You can walk."

You groaned, "guess I'm not eating."

"Don't play games with me. That didn't work for Mokuba and it won't work for you. I have to be up for work in three hours so if you have any consideration for me the way you say you do, get up, and walk with me."

With another defiant huff, you stood up to walk, only to be swept quite literally off your feet by a wave of dizziness tearing through your head. Your hand anchored instinctively against the wall, the other gripping your head, fingers knotting against the base of your hair.

Your husband moved at an incomprehensible speed, hands slipping around your small frame to support your collapsing form.

"So is this what it takes for you to take care of me?" you inquired in a strained whisper, eyes having misted over.

"Are you insane?" he barked, "is that all you can think about at a time like this?"

"Do you now get tired of making that face?"

"You're infuriating."

"And you're - "

"Be quiet," he scolded, lifting you against his waist with a smothered grunt.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, head leaned against his shoulder, "This is all I wanted."

"You require a ridiculous amount of affection," he muttered, carrying you out of the bathroom.

...

"I expect that finished," he demanded, taking a seat across from you with his arms crossed, a crosser expression on his face. The way his chair scraped against the stone floor of the kitchen as he drew it away from the table aggravated your migraine.

You grimaced at the plate of re-heated chicken and mushroom risotto sitting in front of you on the crystal carved table.

"You know I've gone up half a dress size since I married you?"

"Don't start with me," he groaned, rubbing his tired eyes.

"You don't need to sit here, go back to sleep."

"As much as that would please me, we both know what you'll do the moment I'm gone."

You couldn't with an honest consciousness deny what he was accusing you of.

You began to grudgingly pick at your plate, and Seto began to speak once again, irritation somewhat alleviated from his tone.

"What's your schedule for tomorrow morning?"

"Packed."

"Can it be helped?"

"Why?"

"I had the interviews moved up a day."

"For your secretaries?" He nodded. Your eyebrow hitched with suspicion. "That's convenient."

"What is?" he snarled.

"That you're telling me this now. When did you have in mind? After the interviews were done?"

"It couldn't be helped. The decision was made last minute."

"How last minute? You must have notified the prospects, or did you do that last minute also?"

"I need a woman that can be ready at a moment's notice." He was referring to his secretaries.

Your eyebrow arched again, "a woman? You already have a woman."

He massaged the pressure points below his brows.

"I do - " he began, only for you to interrupt.

"You're looking for an EA, not a secretary."

"She will be expected to cater to both," he agreed.

"And you have a wife," you reminded, as he often did with you. "I don't know how comfortable I am with that. Especially with your track record."

He threw a menacing glare, "do not start with me." He stressed every word. "You don't have the time in your schedules to arrange my schedule and deliver my lunch."

"You want to put your money where your mouth is on that one?"

"I would," he confidently declared, "you hardly have the time for your own lunch, let alone mine. You manage your schedule so poorly that I had to hire a nutritionist to plan your meals. The last thing you have time for is planning mine."

"Then hire yourself a nutritionist. A guy if it can be helped."

"Are you jealous?" he inquired, his quizzical brow conveying sincere curiosity over anger. It seemed more as if he was genuinely surprised and perplexed.

"I am."

"You - you of all people are jealous of a woman who will not be of any consequence to me?"

"Yes, that and I'm jealous of your past affairs. I was stupid enough to - never mind, I mean, you're young, attractive, accomplished and richer than any man realistically needs to be, it's hard to believe you wouldn't have received and reciprocated the infinite sources of affection being directed toward you from the opposite sex." You were half confessing your troubled thoughts and half blabbering out of pure exhaustion which was worsening your irascible mood.

He watched you with a critical eye for another moment, before chuckling.

"Foolish girl," he simply declared, leaving you bewildered. "I should have known that's what this was about." He sighed, choosing his words from what it seemed. "Look kid, you're concerning yourself uselessly. Those relationships were purely physical. I didn't date those women. And while I can't help what they made of the relationship, you're my wife and that title alone carries a lot of weight. Take ownership of that title and stop being so damn insecure."

As always, nothing short of a slap in the face. You couldn't pretend to not know how heavy a role and the immense significance being married to the eldest Kaiba carried.

It took you a moment to compose yourself, and when you did, perhaps the question you asked wasn't the most fitting.

"What would lead them to believe your relationship was anything it wasn't unless you led to believe that?"

"Women like feeding meaning into things - "

"I think that's a vastly inaccurate generalization."

"What is bothering you?" he demanded to know, "that I had sex with other women before I met you or that you believe I'm still engaging in those relationships? If the first, there's nothing in my power that I can do to change that fact, you were only a child then, I hardly saw you as anything but. If the latter -"

"You're not cheating on me, I get it. It just bothers me. Not much you can do now."

He continued to watch you with a glint of scrutiny in his eye, an odd gleam of satisfaction hiding in the shadows behind his cascading hair.

"You've gone off the deep end."

"What?"

"Who's wrapped around who's finger?"

His second vague statement offered no more clarity than his first.

"You need to stop speaking in riddles."

"I didn't think I was being cryptic," Seto began, lips assuming a curve. You could tell he was intending to continue when a sharp, rippling, snapping noise echoed from the darkness beyond the glass of the kitchen window. You expected the glass to shatter.

Your immediate reaction was to cower, reaching for Seto's hand across the table, a strained yell ripping out of you. You could feel your chest tighten, a sensation you assumed was an imminent sign of a heart attack sweeping through you.

You wouldn't know but the terror was unmissable in your wide eyes.

"It's just a tree branch," he noted blandly, tone straddling an unreadable line between indifference and irritation. He motioned to stand but your hand gripped his tighter. "I'm not going anywhere," he assured roughly, tone conveying discernible irritation that time. You released him hesitantly, and he walked briskly away, flicking a combination of switches on the panel beside the kitchen door, a golden light consuming the darkness outside, pouring over the budding tree branches that the strong summer winds were crashing against the large windows.

Your fingers dug into your chest, attempting to gather your trembling self, overcome with a violent fit of panic.

"I thought it was starting again," you offered in a hushed whisper as he returned to his previous seat beside you.

It took your husband another lagged moment to comprehend those words, realization dawning on his face as it slowly grew clear to him where your reaction had stemmed from.

"You can't live like this." His statement was plain and the implied obviousness of it was aggravating.

"That's like asking a colour blind person to stop seeing black and white."

"No," he growled, "I meant you clearly need help."

You contemplated making another snide remark, then promptly decided against it, comprehending exceedingly well that you were teetering dangerously close to actually making your husband tick.

He didn't pursue that topic of conversation further, and adamant on not discussing the trauma that was crippling you more than you let on, you resigned yourself to eating in the silence he had fixed.

Your husband was a master of perfectly occupying himself with stoically remaining absolutely still. You meanwhile were awkward, unconsciously listening to how many items your fork clinked against the porcelain of your cobalt, floral painted plate.

You wondered if your trauma was burden to your husband, convincing yourself quite certainly that it was. He had already risked his life protecting you from all that had passed, the last he needed was your continued weakness.

Another while, and you pushed your nearly empty plate towards Seto, motioning for him to dispose of it in the sink, or wherever it was meant to be placed. He wordlessly applied himself to the task.

As the two of you returned to the bedroom, the click of the lock behind you indicating that your husband locked it, you could feel an all too familiar feeling of dread embrace you like an old friend.

He pulled the covers over the both of you, and your finger instinctively found his shirt, curling desperately against it, his scent comforting your distressed mind slowly but surely dissolving into chaos.

Your mind couldn't stop visualizing the bathtub separated by just one wall, the film of red floating above you, the possibility of a masked assassin walking through those doors - your fingers curled tighter - you couple hear gun shots in the distance, bullets kissing flesh, car engines revving. You were drowning in your own mind. You couldn't be sure what had triggered this avalanche, at least a montage this intense, only that you couldn't hope to outthink it, your thoughts lingering only, and stubbornly on everything that made your blood curdle. You just couldn't comprehend it, you believed you had moved past it all for so long.

Your husband peered down at you, concern etched deep into his features. He tried to recall how he consoled Mokuba at times like these, and pondered if it would offer his distressed wife any solace. Of course, tough love seldom worked on you, and he worried whether his usual methods would worsen the sensitive situation.

 


	12. Mistranslated Definitions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold all your hate until the next chapter, I promise you right now we are at a much better point than we will be at the next XD 
> 
> I'm posting this on a flight and had this whole thing typed as a note on my phone. Last minute as I was trying to export it to here, the whole bloody thing accidentally got deleted. Praise the lord for the 'undo' button is all I will say. 
> 
> I feel like me apologizing for being so slacking with the comments has become a running gag in the notes now, but after I'm back home, and not flying as much that'll get better.

You woke to birdsong. There was a familiar feeling of mugginess enveloping you; Seto's arm producing a band of dampness across your back over the linen of your nightgown. It was a comfortable warmth, his body heat balancing the coldness the air-conditioner produced.

The steady, monotonous clicking of keys on his phone fell cover your ears, lulling you back to sleep.

"We are going to be late," he scolded, eyes briefly darting down to you on his chest as you stirred. You offered incoherent murmuring. "What?"

"Five more minutes," you mumbled again, words smothering against his body.

"We don't have five minutes, it's well past six. I have to be in the office for the interviews in two hours."

He usually left without waking you at times like this, so you wondered why he was still here, attempting so resolutely to rouse you. Did he expect you to abandon your entire schedule at such short notice and accompany him?

"I'll take you out for lunch if you behave yourself," he offered as incentive.

"You still haven't made good on your last promise."

"To take you shopping?"

You nodded against his chest, eyes surrendering to the weight over your eyelids.

"You own almost every department store in the country," he simply defended, "when we leave for New York, I plan to take you."

"I like my promises where I can see them, written on tough, binding contracts."

"Now you're speaking more like the woman I married," he husked, sliding you up his body to hover your lips over his.

"Seto it's too early for this."

"It's never too early," he disagreed, his deep and tantalizing voice breaking a shudder across your body from where his lips grazed yours.

You never did quite appreciate enough how fortunate you were to wake up to this man every morning.

You had spent the greater part of the last three months dreading whether each morning you woke up to Seto would be your last, and now strangely, you could hear the words his younger brother had said your husband had spoken; with the danger having passed, why couldn't the two of you just be happy?

You released a moan in protest against his lips, struggling in his grip.

"Have a shower and put on something appropriate for an interview," he ordered, releasing you.

"You seriously expect me to come?"

"Yes."

"Seto, I told you, I'm busy, have you no regard for my career?"

"You and I both know that there's nothing either of us can't postpone when we really want to."

"Then by that same logic you can postpone the interviews," you countered as you sat up straddling his torso, earning an angry growl uttering your name.

"I'm not well enough mentally to sit through an interviewing process. I'm just in a really bad place right now mentally, and I just know it will translate to a place where I'm expected to exude professionalism and represent you with dignity."

He appraised you with a meaningful gaze, lacing the fingers of his left hand through yours, a pained look in his eye.

"Don't look at me like that -- like I'm some charity case deserving your pity."

"I have no pity to give," he spat, his eyes hardening into a glare. "Pull yourself together. You can't afford to be soft, the world doesn't have a place for the weak. In fact, the world has a way of weeding out the weak. I need my wife to be a reflection of me and the person before me right now is pathetic and not deserving of that title. Wakamura is gone. He's not after you and he's certainly not after me. Dead men can't chase the living. Get out of your own head and start living the rest of your life. I don't want the woman who is to become the mother of my children passing on this weak mindset to my children. I've never accepted cowardice from anyone around me and will not accept it from you."

"You're such an asshole," you cried in retort, your expression having twisted more and more with each of his words, "it's true what they say about you, you truly lack a conscience and compassion! And this is the man I rely on for comfort and affection. You think I'm weak? You don't know half of what I'm going through. You would have been better off as a bitter old man, you don't deserve me!"

You attempted to dismount from him but he held you in place, his glare fortifying.

"What exactly are you going through?"

It caught you off guard that he didn't defend himself, or match your aggression.

"What am I going through? I have a terrible husband, who really wants children despite me not being able to carry a pregnancy to term, and I worry constantly about where that will lead this marriage. I'm at a point where I love what I do for a living but I just can't tolerate the ridiculous standards engrained in the industry, I hate how I've been conditioned to think and while that's slowly changing, I hate how I have to forcefully pass those twisted values to my juniors to keep them afloat in the industry." This was the reality. There were certain monsters one simply did not invite for a dance. The entertainment industry was one such monster. It was infinitely bigger than you and one you simply could not tackle. Maybe you could, but you didn't care to find out. This wasn't some young adult fiction with some noble moral engraved before the ending credits. This was real life and moral obligation and an insatiable hankering for justice would not drive individuals to seek to right all the wrongs of the world. Perhaps it was the small things, done over many generations that would eventually change the grain, or maybe someday one driven individual would accomplish such a great feat as alleviating the toxicity of the industry, but that individual was not you. You would not be propelled to solve the trials of the industry because you had spent your entire youth adhering to all those twisted codes that needed to be revised and you were tired and quite frankly did not care enough. You weren't some empowered heroine. In spite of your image as some inspired role model, that just wasn't you, and it drew you mad. "Wakamura is gone? Yes I'm sure he is and I'm sure my dear husband had a lot to do with it, and I'm not sure what kind of life you've led before meeting me but I've never had people so hellbent on killing me before. As if that wasn't enough, they tried to take the only person I cared for in my life away from me again and again, do you know how afraid I was? Can you understand what fear is or have you evolved beyond all human emotion?"

"They couldn't touch me, and I didn't let them hurt you."

"Except they did Seto, they got to us, they had me at gunpoint in this very house, and they've put a barrel to your head twice, right before my eyes. I just - can't."

Rhythm slipped away from your breaths between the tears choking your words; your breathing growing erratic. Loud sobs broke against the quiet whirr of the air conditioner in the otherwise silent room.

He watched you for another long moment, before pulling you against his chest, "come here." You wouldn't bother struggling his grip over you, allowing your tears to soak his shirt. He stroked your hair, hushing you. "I'm here," he husked with his chillingly deep voice, his resolve to knock sense into you by presenting the hard reality of the situation having crumbled.

"Seto, I'm losing my mind," you whispered. In the end, this man was all you seemed to have besides yourself to rely on, and he knew.

"We are going in circles. I've said this once before. Transfer Kodama's managing rights to me and retire from the acting industry. I'm more than capable of supporting the both of us financially."

Seto Kaiba declaring that he could support himself and his wife financially sounded almost comically, if for nothing else, the extreme understatement it was.

"I see how you introduce me to your business partners and board members. I know my position is one of the reasons you married me. I imagine it would upset you a great deal if I did that." You were absentmindedly drawing circles on his chest with your index finger.

"I find it admirable yes, but I wouldn't suggest something that would displease me."

"Don't lie for my sake," you pressed, "that's not what you want."

"It is."

"Seto - "

"If that's what it takes to keep you happy!" he bellowed and those words burned away the ones forming in your mouth. "And," he began in a gentler tone, "if you can't give me children, then it can't be helped." You awkwardly tilted your head up to look at him. There was a short pause, an unreadable expression crossing his face.

"Would you consider finding someone who could give you - "

"If you weren't the woman I needed, don't think for a moment that you would still be here. You should know by now exactly how I feel about you. Those sentiments will not change if you don't make me a father. I'm not sure how much clearer I could make those sentiments." There was silence again as he paused to consider. "You need to see a therapist."

"I don't want to."

"This isn't up for negotiation, I can't watch you do this to yourself. You're heavily relying on me for mental stability, and even that's not helping anymore."

"I will not be remembered as some unhinged starlet needing rehab," you countered, "I will not become the poster girl for that here."

"I'll have a psychologist come to the mansion, it'll be discreet."

"There's no such thing with the media."

He spoke your name reassuringly, "I think you forget who you're married to."

"You've put your life on the line protecting me. This isn't your burden to shoulder."

"You make me wonder if you knew the concept of a life companion when you said it," was his simple response as he rolled you off of him, "because by my definition, this is my problem just as much as it is yours."

You watched him disappear into the bathroom, having slipped away from the bed, not sure how to receive his words.

...

He had begun shaving as you walked into the bathroom, shirt slung carelessly over the golden bar on a wall behind him.

Your cheeks were stained with trails of dried tears, face reddened and eyes swollen, but you were composed. Composed in the way that you often were during the day; externally composed under the guise of daylight until nightfall, when your collected countenance would shatter again, thoughts dissolving into madness.

You wrapped your arms around his toned form from behind, fingers clasping over his abs, cheek pressed against the lean muscles of his back arched forward.

"Get ready."

"You really are my better half," you mumbled, ignoring his command to get dressed.

"What are you scheming?"

"What?"

"You only get this affectionate when you want something from me." He set down his razor on the marble, turning to face you.

Leaning forward on the tips of your toes, you reached a hand up to his face, wiping away the white foam lathered over his porcelain skin. You wouldn't allow him the time to react as you pressed your lips against his, smothering the words he motioned to speak in protest. Your fingers curled instinctively against his abs as he returned your kiss, tilting his face slightly to accommodate the height difference.

"Thank you," you whispered, lips ghosting over his.

"Why would you do that?" he growled, blue eyes piercing yours peering up at him. There was a tinge of irritation in his tone at your unexpected motion, though for the greater part overshadowed by intrigue.

"I said a lot of things you didn't deserve to hear," you mumbled, burying your face in his chest. He placed a hand over the back of your head, holding you against him.

"You did. What was that about me not deserving you?"

You winced, "I promise I'll make it up to you."

"So I assume this means you're coming to the interviews."

"Mhm."

"Go get dressed then," he ordered, attempting to separate himself from you. You wouldn't allow it, stubbornly clinging on to him. "If you keep this up, I can't promise that I'll care that you aren't on birth control."

"Seto!" you called out, "you know what that could - "

"Exactly why you should not tempt me so early in the morning," he rasped, eyes tracing your lips.

You quickly stumbled away from him, your rapid but awkward motion closely resembling that of a frazzled cat.

You missed the smirk which stretched across his lips while your back was turned.  
...

Your eyes lazily glossed over the list of Italian drinks sprawled in white chalk over the blackboard, not entirely registering any of the familiar names.

"Hurry up," your husband growled, voice growing increasingly more irritated as it drew closer to the time he had to be in the office.

Your head tilted languidly against his arm, yours circled around his, leaning into him as you rested your weight on him, "I'll just share yours," you mumbled.

"You don't drink black coffee."

"No," you agreed, "you take enough espresso shots in there to revive the dead. Just order something decaf, I don't care."

"I don't drink that crap. You're wasting my time."

"I gave up my entire morning for your interviews, and I'm wasting your time?"

He tore his arm away from yours at the remark, stalking forward towards the counter with an intensity which caused the barista to quite visibly shrink back.

"Black coffee, large." You couldn't be sure from where you stood how many shots of espresso he had ordered. "She'll have..." he shot you a glance over his shoulder, "the most uselessly complicated thing you have on the menu, decaf, extra everything."

You couldn't accuse him of not knowing you; his vague description could easily describe everything you had ever ordered off a cafe menu.

You witnessed uneasiness fall briefly over the face of the young girl behind the counter as she debated whether or not to ask for further elaboration, instead then silently applying herself to catering towards the confusing request to the best of her abilities, likely, all the while, fearing for her life.

Moments later your husband stalked out of the cafe, one hand lacing through your as if it was second nature, pulling you behind him. You found a foamy, frothy concoction shoved into your hand as you stumbled behind him, struggling to fall into step with his ridiculously long strides.

Sitting in the passenger seat of his car; another one you hadn't seen until that very day though he insisted it had been sitting in the garage for a while, you listened absentmindedly to his briefings of what he expected from his candidates, what qualifications he had used as criteria and how involved he required you to be; all of this a steady wall of white noise in the background of your mind.

"Are any of them still working for you?"

"Excuse me?" he snapped, breaking away from the long winded speech.

"Your past affairs, do any of them still work in the building?"

"You're back to this," he growled, "I think it's time you stopped talking about that."

"I'm taking that as a yes. Have I met any of them?"

"Possibly," was his answer and it absolutely infuriated you.

"Possibly?"

"When you visited programming. There's one left, she was recently made a team lead, I'm sure you've seen her in passing."

You released a single syllabled chuckled, "I must have looked like such an idiot."

"They know where they stand relatively to you."

You allowed the exchange to come to a close there, attempting for at least once to take his word for it.

He threw you a concerned glance at your uncharacteristic silence, appearing as if he had been ready to defend himself.

"What?"

"I don't recall saying anything," he muttered, eyes firmly locked on the road.

Your eyes fell parallel to him, looking blankly at the road before you, wincing internally at the guilt slowly seeping in for the words that had slipped from you earlier. It drowned you in bitterness and you felt your heart clench, inspiring feelings of remorse but more so resentment against yourself. The inescapable awareness that you were unable to rewind your fit of rage and choose a different course of action only stood to worsen your anxiety.

"Remember when I called you an awful husband?" you began apprehensively, earning a fleeting glare in your direction.

"Terrible," he spoke gruffly after a moment of seeming as if he had no intention of responding.

"What?"

"Your exact words."

You contorted your lips to form a silent 'O,' before biting your lower lip, "well, I'm sorry."

"Right."

"No," you sighed, frustration growing as you saw him dismiss your apology, receiving it as one without substance. "You're -- good to me. And I've never really - I guess what I'm trying to say is I don't have the experience that you have to know what being in a relationship with, in my case a man, is supposed to be like. And don't take this the wrong way, but you're not an easy guy to start with."

"Start with?" he visibly clenched his jaw, "you make it sound as if I'm the first rung of your relationship ladder."

"Seto, please, this is me putting down my pride and apologizing."

"Why don't you make it so that there isn't any reason for you to apologize next time? Acting up and then apologizing is getting real old." Ouch. You visibly winced, and unless he completely lacked peripheral vision, you were certain he noticed. You could practically hear his teeth grit. "The feeling is mutual."

"I'm sorry?"

"Experience. I've never bothered with relationships prior to this."

"Yes I would imagine mindless sex is quite different from bringing home a wife."

"Do you have to say it with such heavy sarcasm?"

"I didn't think delivering that with a serious tone would digest very well with you." You smothered a laugh against the back of your hand, looking at him from the corner of your eye to earning a brief but pointed glower, "how do you tolerate me?"

"I ask myself the same question," he groused, the faint smile turning up the edges of his lips betraying his tone.

...

"You could fall asleep anywhere," you heard a rough voice mutter, a clean metal clicking sound following. You felt something brush across your chest and opened your eyes to your husband leaning in through the passenger door, having undone your safety belt. "We are here," he informed as your eyes met, before briskly walking towards the glass elevators at the far end of the grey underground parking garage.

You had to catch yourself as your disoriented senses led you to stumble out of the white Lamborghini.

Sharp and rapid taps echoed like gunshots through the space with each time your nude stilettos met the stone ground as you ran to compensate for the distance your husband had put between the two of you with a handful of long strides. Tripping over yourself as your steps faltered attempting to fall into step with him, you with much awkward stumbling managed to slide your hand around Seto's, catching up to him; the light jog lingering in your step contrasting his steady and purposeful pace.

  
An arm slid around your waist the moment the two of you left his personal elevator, stepping onto a floor you hadn't previously had the occasion to visit.

Walking down the cobalt blue carpeted floor, he guided you to a hallway wrapped in glass, boardrooms lining either side as far as your vision would allow you to see. Opening a door to your right, he led you into a massive room offering a spectacular view of the miniature city coloured in hues of blues, greens and whites under the cover of early morning far below.

An oak shaded table stretched around the perimeter of the room, chairs placed around it at even intervals.

Quick steps immediately led you to the edge of the curved, grand wall of glass wrapping around two thirds of the space, morning sunlight filtering through, raining over your face filled with childlike curiosity and excitement. Your fingers splayed across the glass, you peered at the morning commuters below, appearing as if they were constructed from building blocks in a child's toy chest.

"You know, everything - all our problems always seem so infinitesimally small," you remarked wistfully.

You felt light footsteps followed by a pair of arms wrapping around your waist, lips faintly ghosting over your ear concealed by cascading hair.

"How are you always so amused by this when your office is almost identical?"

"I don't know," you murmured, leaning back into him, embraced by his warmth, "it always just puts everything into perspective, you know?"

He hummed from low in his throat.

"Take off your jacket," you told your husband, spinning around in his embrace, fingers curling against the collars of his navy suit jacket.

"You want to do this here?" he smirked, setting down his coffee, drawing his face closer to yours. "And they call you innocent," he purred darkly, "the blinds aren't even drawn."

"Please, why would I do that here? I'm your wife not some secretary you're screwing in the office."

"Why?" his tone grew gruff, bordering irritation, eyes travelling up and down your fitted ash and white houndstooth dress which flared slightly past the hips beyond the thick black ribbon tied in a bow around your waist, its sleeves stretching to your elbows, the fifties inspired neckline wrapping around your shoulders and dipping away from your back. "Are you cold?"

"I want them to know you're taken, and more bluntly, that you're mine."

"Are you really that insecure?"

"Excuse me?" you dared him to repeat himself through gritted teeth.

"You have my last name. The only way the name Kaiba will ever be associated with any of them is through their employee ID. Stop being a damn child and start acting more like a woman that deserves to be my wife."

You stepped away from him, wrestling out of his embrace.

"You put family crests on me and do the exact same thing. I just want them to have a clear idea of who you belong to. Just give me your jacket. What's the big deal?"

"I've had enough of this," he snapped unexpectedly, removing his wedding band, and slamming it against the hard oak of the table behind him. He then reached for yours, a hard scowl deepening the lines between his furrowed brows.


	13. Embracing Imperfections

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally fell asleep on my keyboard a dozen times writing this - just for clarity, I have the flu and all I can seem to do is sleep, so apologies for the really long chapter. I typed pieces of this on my long haul flights and pieced it together just now, but hopefully it doesn't seem too off. 
> 
> Also, wasn't sure what the English equivalent for senpai/ sunbae was, the word 'senior' just doesn't capture the cringe factor when spoken out of context as well so I just kept senpai as it was. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy.

You watched his slender finger steal your wedding band from your finger.

“What are you doing?” you cried in protest, grappling his arm, “Seto, what are you doing?”

He twisted his arms outwards in one fluid motion, years of martial arts training evident as he gripped both your wrists, having reversed your hold with ease.

“You shouldn’t be wearing this and neither should I,” he declared stridently, “the marriage isn’t public knowledge and would only cause unnecessary drama I don’t have the time for. As it is, the rings serve their purpose even when they aren’t worn.”

“What – what does that mean?” you begged for clarification.

He released your right hand, massaging his furrowed brows and creased forehead with his middle and index fingers.

“You mean to tell me you haven’t noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

Your left wrist was turned harshly at the query, “you’re not as sharp as I give you credit for,” he spoke scathingly. Your eyes remained momentarily captivated by the deep blue ones looking elsewhere, before following his line of vision to your ring finger, still adorned by your engagement ring. “What do you see?”

Your brows drew together, eyes perceiving for the first time the distinct ‘ _SK_ ,’ etched into your skin where your ring had previously been in cursive handwriting which was unmistakably his.

“Did you even take one good look at your wedding ring?” Seto inquired, terribly cross.

“I…” hesitation impeded your thoughts, eyes drawn back to the letters on your finger, “didn’t have the chance. You had your initials embossed on the inside of my ring?”

He sighed in exasperation, “I don’t see why you feel so threatened that you feel the need to go to such lengths to showcase our relationship but I can tell you right now that you’re uselessly concerned. It’s unbecoming of the woman I married. I wouldn’t have done this if I had any thoughts of appealing to another woman. More plainly, and I thought this obvious by now, I wouldn’t have married a woman if I thought myself attracted to another.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” you interjected, “I don’t follow how branding me as yours has any effect on how – ”

“I had the same done on mine,” he elucidated, holding up his own ring finger, a faint yet unmissable outline of your own initials marked on his skin.

Overwhelmed by the sentimentality of the gesture you hadn’t fathomed him capable of, you found yourself stricken with guilt by the accusation you had insinuated through your request.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” you hastily defended, understanding how the situation had been interpreted.

“Don’t lose this,” he commanded tersely, slipping both the wedding bands into his breast pocket, perplexing you entirely for a moment by what he was referring to, before sliding the navy suit jacket off his broad shoulders and draping it over your exposed skin.

“My god Seto,” you gasped, clutching your chest, “you had me there for a second.”

“Had you doing what?”

“I thought you were taking back my wedding band.”

“What would possess you to think something so ridiculous?” he dismissed, turning away from the window and taking a seat at the head of the conference table, “why would I take my wife’s wedding band away?”

His tone denoted that he was genuinely confused, and you wondered if it was possible for a man so perceptive to be that oblivious, or if he was just being a businessman attempting to steer away from a potentially precarious situation.

Unconcerned by the particulars of his dismissal, you drew a chair next to his, helping yourself to the seat.

“Let me hear that again,” you entreated, snaking an arm around his and bundling to his side.

“Hear what?” he inquired disinterestedly, consumed by what appeared to be an email on his phone.

You were hardly discouraged as you continued with perhaps a degree more of enthusiasm than was required, “That I’m your wife. I want to hear you say it again.” If you ever _waited_ to receive the undivided attention of Seto Kaiba, when he was thoroughly removed from his work, you would perhaps be forced to wait a lifetime, or at least an unbearable sum of weeks.

He turned his head with a condescending expression contorting his features.

“How are you the president of a multi-billion dollar conglomerate with the temperament of a child?"

"I must have missed the rule where it said you had to be a self-important jackass to run a business."

You had expected a snide remark or perhaps even a scalding one, likely accompanied by a piercing glare, only to be genuinely surprised when a deep chuckle resounded in waves.

"What is it that you'd like to hear, Mrs. Kaiba?" he purred in your ear, having slid the arm you were bundled against around your small waist, pulling you into him against the arm for his chair.

"Say that I'm your wife again," you whispered, your breath kissing his face.

"Would that get you to behave?" his tone remained dark.

"That would get me to do a many number of things for you I would imagine," you cooed suggestively, palming his inner thigh.

A smirk tugged his lips and you watched him part his lips to speak when a knock echoed. You tore yourself away from your husband to see a woman you recognized to be one of his temporary secretaries standing behind the glass doors.

The smirk fell from your husband's lips, expression assuming a firm scowl.

"Come in," he called, and the slender woman in a tight pencil skirt and a questionably sheer baby blue blouse with puffed up sleeves walked in holding what appeared to be a rather large tablet, no doubt a design of Kaiba Corp.

"Mr. Kaiba," she spoke in a melodious voice, bending over a degree more than you would have appreciated as she handed your husband the tablet, "this has the shortlist of candidates coming for an interview today. I separated the AM from the PM depending on whether they are internal or external candidates. The internal candidates have been given morning time slots."

Your grip on his thigh tightened unconsciously at how she addressed Seto.

"And I assume you're on this list?" he inquired, scanning the list on his screen with a critical eye.

"I am, sir."

She received a grunt in acknowledgement and was promptly dismissed.

"You told me I would only be here for the morning," you quickly dove for clarification.

"No," he asserted "I wanted to know what your morning schedule looked like. I never said explicitly how long I needed you present."

"Seto, I have a meeting at three. I need to be gone by lunch."

"I'll take you to lunch if you stay."

"I'm not some cat; you can't lure me in with food."

"Name your prize," he sighed.

 

"When do you get off work today?"

"Late."

"Yes, I know, how late?"

"What do you want?" he snapped.

"Take me for a drive after work tonight."

"That's it?"

"Oh and lunch, I still want to go out for lunch."

"Fine," he growled, attention falling to his tablet.

"Who did the preliminary interviews for the internal candidates?" you questioned, raising a quizzical brow at your husband, eyes glossing over the resumes rolling through the screen in front of him.

"The head of the secretariat department."

"I see."

"You can let go of my leg now," he hissed, prying your fingers off, "you really need to watch your claws."

Your apology was barely acknowledged, as he instead began typing furiously across the screen of the tablet in front of him. You watched him silently for a few moments, until a green, gridded stream of light poured up from the screen before assuming a light blue hue and manifesting slowly to display in suspension above the screen, a three dimensional list of candidates selected for the final round of interviews. You watched three dimensional renderings of their photos flash alongside their holographically projected resume.

 

"Seto this is amazing," you marvelled, leaning on his arm again, "I'm assuming you designed this?"

"Obviously."

"Why hasn't this technology been released to the public?"

"A less advanced version has been installed on all standard Kaiba Corp. duel disks, but as of right now, this particular hologram projection still requires some perfecting to be installed in devices like tablets."

"Well it's very impressive. When do you think it'll be ready?" you inquired, flicking between the projections hovering before you with your index finger, following what you had witnessed your husband do.

"A few months," he responded after a moment's consideration, "it's not a priority right now. Why?"

"I want one."

"Take this after the interviews; just be sure not to disclose anything to the public."

Your eyebrow hitched in surprise, a wide smile spreading across your face, "you'd really let me have yours?"

"There's more than one prototype."

"Right," you pursed your lips, leaning away from the suspended holograms and back against him over your arm rest. "On another note, do your employees not have any form of a dress code?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because I could see that woman's bra. I mean, I'm pretty lax with most of these things, we live together, you see what I wear, but if I can see your bra through your shirt at work, that's just unprofessional, don't you think?"

He hummed, conveying a combination of contemplation and agreement, "I'll address it."

"I don't think that's appropriate. It might make her uncomfortable also. Have a female supervisor do it, given they don't also dress the same way."

He again grunted in response, before returning his attention to the suspended screens.

“At least make it a worthwhile brand if you’re going to show your boss your lingerie,” you muttered under your breath, earning a disguised smirk from your husband.

...

You straightened your back against the chair, swinging your left leg over your right, feet poised on your uncomfortably tall heels, temple pressing against the languidly stretched fingers of your folded left hand anchored against the armrest as your head leaned into it, a quizzical brow to your countenance as you assumed your usual, professional air. You wouldn't know how irresistible your husband found this side of you. Your skirt hitched up and your husband's large hand gripped your thigh where your skirt had previously been concealing your skin. He was particularly fond of taller heels on you, even though he had never explicitly expressed it.

Your eyes darted to meet his and while his grip tightened, surely from having caught your eye in his peripheral vision, wouldn't turn his attention away from the files in front of him on the flat screen of the tablet.

"If this is the best talent Kaiba Corp. has to offer, I'm deeply concerned," you remarked, as the fifth internal applicant was dismissed following a thoroughly disappointing interview.

Thus far you have had a young girl too nervous to answer either yours or Seto's questions, leaving you wondering how on earth she had made it to the final round of the process, and how tragically under-qualified those she surpassed must had been, another who was quite blatantly more interested in the salary than the actual position, the third more interested in her potential boss rather than the position and most recently, one who just couldn't keep up with your intensely demanding behavioural questions. In the defence of the final candidate who you had almost reduced to tears, before concluding she wasn't physically or mentally capable of handling such an overwhelming level of stress, your IQ was far superior to hers and could hardly be used as fair criteria to penalize the applicants against.

 

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms, a fountain pen swirling between your fingers, recalling how the secretary from earlier in the morning with the scandalous attire had actually been competent and undeniably suited for the position.

"You know," you drawled, eyes fixed on the glass door in the distance, unbeknownst to you, unwittingly having become a hopeless distraction for your husband who grew helplessly aroused by your current behaviour. "I worked at my secretaries' desk for a full fortnight before the interviews when I had to hire mine for the first time after taking over the company. It gave me insight on how demanding the work load was, how tense situations escalated to be, what sort of mental stamina one required to endure the position and all the responsibilities that came with it. And this may seem fairly obvious but you know what I learned?"

"What?" he practically bit, painfully frustrated.

"They need to have the capacity to cover for the CEO in an emergency to be qualified for this position, and in this case they can't be repressed and sexually frustrated enough to be tempted to fuck my husband. I'm starting to wonder if anyone here is going to have what it takes," you explained calmly, unaffected by his sudden, tense bearing, adding, “except maybe the fourth one whose outfit I dragged to filth.”

"You've certainly done your research," he commended almost sarcastically, voice descending to a strained husk as he grew increasingly more furious at both himself, as well as how oblivious you were to the condition you had forced upon him.

“Thank you.”

“Excuse me,” he abruptly stood up, before promptly marching out of the room.

Seto Kaiba was acutely disciplined, highly principled and capable of concealing his desires and emotions to a degree which was beyond human, though ultimately, he was still a man, and not in the least bit immune to what would ensnare any other man in a woman he found attractive. It hurt his pride that your appeal was so obviously an uncalculated and unintended attack on his masculine predisposition and wondered if you were aware of the consequences of provoking him so innocently.

 

He returned, an undiscernible sheen to his face, immediately earning your scrutiny, “did you wash your face?”

“Those last interviewees were a joke and an utter waste of my time, I needed to cool off,” he lied.

“Well, are you feeling better?” you reached an arm out to rub his upper arm, genuinely concerned by his conduct. He was a difficult man to handle when he reached a certain level of rage, and maybe even that was a severe understatement.

“Would you please stop talking?” he seethed, infuriated by how innocently unaware his wife insisted on remaining.

“Seto, is everything alright?”

“Fine.”

Thoroughly disconcerted by his bipolar, rather Jekyll and Hyde conduct, though perhaps Seto was better described as Hyde and Hyde - a more violently inclined version when enraged, you remained silent for a few moments before speaking again.

“Seto,” you treaded carefully, “I thought the morning was all internal candidates. This next one is not. Is it just because we had time and there aren’t any more internal applicants left or?” He merely grunted in confirmation. Silence fell over the space, your husband occupying his attention on documents he had ordered to be brought in over the course of the morning, until eventually the tension as he ignored your existence entirely grew unbearable. “I’m sorry, have I offended you in some way? Was it my comment about what your corporation had to offer being disappointing, because I will resign that statement sincerely if it offended you.”

“For god’s sake,” he swore your name, motioning to speak when a knock at the door interrupted him for a second time that morning.

A young woman appearing Seto’s age peered through the door upon being called in, dark hair sweeping over her shoulder. Your eyes fell from her pale peach complexion to her light blue dress, grazing her thighs a few inches above her knees, a well-tailored black blazer draped over her shoulders complimenting her black patent pumps. And while you appreciated the baby blue and pink Ted Baker satchel, the abstract jadeite dragon poised above the dainty lace scallops of her neckline immediately earned your attention and possibly ire.

“Interesting dragon motif,” you noted to your husband, head falling towards the hard copy of her resume on the table in an attempt to disguise your mocking smirk, “she’s not vying for your personal attention at all.”

“That’s a dragon?” Seto shot back in a hushed whisper, causing your lips to tug further upwards.

“I didn’t realize the president of Kodama would be presiding over my interview,” she added nerve gratingly politely following her greeting, standing behind the chair set out for her.

“Is there a problem, Miss…Komei?” You didn’t believe your presence owed her an explanation. You motioned for her to take a seat.

“No,” she breathed, tone betraying her assertion, complying with your request.

Seto leaned back, arms crossed, appraising her with a glare that would serve as an assault perhaps even on your composure.

She laughed nervously; you couldn’t see her expression, your eyes never having left her resume you still haven’t read. Her laugh dissolved awkwardly into the silence.

“Do you remember me senpai?” she questioned out of the blue, your eyes snapping up to hers watching your husband with baited breath.

“What did you call me?”

“Senpai, I was a year your junior, both in high school and university,” she offered excitedly. Your eyes narrowed slightly, unjustifiably – from a professional sense – annoyed by her revelation.

“Don’t flatter yourself; do you expect me to remember everyone I went to school with?” Seto responded rather tetchily.

“Of course not,” she dimmed, and you cringed for the poor girl, “but we have worked together on a couple of projects.”

“I’m afraid I don’t recall, though I can’t remember one single group project which wasn’t a complete disaster of an experience, so Komei Yukari, consider if my remembering this would be beneficial to you,” your husband spoke cynically. “Don’t expect me to regard you with any special consideration and also, that’s Mr. Kaiba to you.”

Seto certainly didn’t mince words and you were grateful each time to not be on the receiving end of his tirades, reminding yourself to take note during each instance how scathing the man had the potential to be, and in comparison how carefully he addressed you despite you receiving him as being contemptuous when he lectured you out of genuine concern.

“Right,” you interjected, unable to watch how distressed she grew, “if we may continue, Miss. Komei, we’ll begin with a few standard questions, involving past experience, strengths, weaknesses - you get the idea, followed by a series of behavioural scenarios. You scored fairly impressively on your IQ test and received notable comments from the first couple rounds of the process, so we have high hopes for you going into this,” you explained, hoping to mend her scattered composure, attempting to offer her an even playing field entering the interview. “Let’s begin with your experiences. You’re still employed with your current employer, what is prompting you to leave?”

“Well, Kaiba Corp. is at the forefront of the industry, I admire the vision it holds and it would be an honour to work under such an impressive individual such as Mr. Kaiba also.”

“So given the opportunity, should a more impressive employer come along, you would abandon your position here?” you challenged.

“What I’m trying to say is that I believe this corporation would offer more room and channels for professional growth. It would offer a rewarding career in a way that another corporation will not be able to.”

“How so?” you probed, “what would Kaiba Corp. offer to you that my corporation would fail to?”

You could see the hesitation in her expression as the unexpected query backed her into a corner. She had been dancing around the question and you would not tolerate it.

“I will be honest,” she caved, having sacrificed her guard, which had been your intention, “my current corporation operates on sexist ideals, imposed, archaic gender roles which seriously limit women from branching out into positions not traditionally regarded as ones undertaken by women.”

“You hate the patriarchy. Noted. What other fields are you interested in?”

“I wish to remain in the secretariat,” she clarified, “in my current corporation, being a department head is not considered a position a woman is capable of handling. I did not want to be penalized for criticizing my current employer so as to not have that be seen as a reflection of how I will – should I be given the position – speak of this one in the future.”

“Understood. How do you accept failure?”

“I don’t,” she asserted confidently, “I work to ensure that I am proactive enough and always research – ”

“There will always be failure, it’s something one must anticipate,” you interjected, “how do you handle it?”

“I always work with back up plans as safety nets to ensure we either have a way forward or an exit strategy.”

“Very good,” you commended.

“What qualities do you consider the most important in a Secretarial or Administrative position?” Seto inquired rejoining the conversation.

“I would personally highlight the planning and organizing ability, oral and written communication skills, initiative, confidentiality, adaptability, integrity, reliability, accuracy and attention to detail, though I must note, the most crucial would be our need to be versatile, as a successful secretary will be called to manage all of these skills simultaneously.”

“Which of what you just listed are you the weakest at?” he continued.

You practically winced at how unforgiving the question was, knowing fully well that there wasn’t an answer your husband would approve of.

“I regard myself highly on all of these, though among these, if I had to choose, I would say that my attention to detail somewhat becomes a second priority when it becomes a decision between perfection and completing the task.”

You wouldn’t deny you were fairly impressed by how she tackled that one, though surely, Seto was far from impressed.

“Attention to detail is what sets us apart from a second rate corporation,” he muttered in response.  

“Miss. Komei, here’s a hypothetical scenario. Your president is signing a decisive deal with an influential rival. The day of the signing arrives and Mr. Kaiba is unable to attend due to an accident. You attempt to prevent the news from reaching the media but they catch on regardless. Stock prices begin dropping and the rivalling CEO begins to wonder if our side is avoiding the partnership purposely. How do you remedy the tension in your superior’s absence?” you questioned, leaning forward on your laced fingers, eyes narrowing in concentration as you waited for her response.

As the interview progressed, it became increasingly apparent that she was more than qualified to be appointed to the position, and while your personal instincts had grown weary of her mannerisms, your professional senses saw her as the correct fit for the position. You could never betray the latter in favour of the former, so you handed her resume back to Seto with positive remarks.

“She was good, very good,” you remarked upon her departure, “interested in you to some capacity though I can’t be sure with what motives exactly. I would say make her your EA and promote your current temp secretary to be your permanent one, and again, ultimately these are people you will be spending a lot of time with so I really can’t say.”

“You don’t seem too pleased with your own recommendation,” he remarked, standing up to leave, the previous interview having been the final one for the morning.

“I don’t know what would give you that impression,” you deflected nonchalantly, “though, I can’t believe she called you senpai, the nerve, oh my god.”

He held the door open for you as you left the boardroom. Walking down the hallway of glass with occupied boardrooms lining the corridoor on either side, you staggered a few steps as you laced your fingers through his, before anxiously peering up with doe eyes to regard his expression.

“That’s it, now you’re just asking for it,” he grit his teeth, tightening his fingers around yours and practically dragging you to his personal elevator.  

You were thrown against the cold elevator wall, a familiar sensation of prickled skin enveloping you at the cool touch while a warm pair of lips pressed against yours. Your wrists were pinned on either side of your head, his body pinning against yours. He wouldn’t allow words; he denied you air, kissing you as if he had been deprived for months, perhaps years. He drew your lips hungrily into his, and you melded into him.

He lifted you against his waist as the doors parted behind him, pivoting with you into his office.

The irksome ringing of the phone on his desk robbed from you a sensation you had not been aware you had desperately desired; the feel of his lips against yours.

Your legs wrapped around him, he placed you on his desk as he answered the phone call, which as you had predicted from previous experience, would continue for a drawn out period of time, consuming a greater part of lunch.

When he finally set down the receiver, you were arranging the Italian take-out you had ordered, on his coffee table.

“I thought you wanted to go out for lunch?” he questioned, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you straightened back up after laying out the cutlery, pressing his lips against your temple.

 “We have fifteen minutes before the next set of interviews.”

Time had gotten away from him, again.

…

The afternoon was uneventful, comprising of a series of interviews which could be best described as lukewarm water; neither appalling nor spectacular. These were of course by yours and Seto’s criteria, which were, in comparison to industry standards, exceedingly strict.

He had promised to make good on his word to take you on a drive, and even take you out for dinner to compensate for lunch, and yet as you left him in his office that evening buried amongst a stack of paperwork and a mountain of files which demanded his attention, you had a sinking feeling of how the next few hours would play out.

You got dressed regardless, slipping on Dolce and Gabbana hydrangea embellished, baby blue slip dress under a dark navy military jacket. You tied your hair into a messy bun, purposefully allowing wisps of hair to fall around your face over your lightly dusted cheeks and peach lips.

Though as the stroke of midnight, he still wouldn’t come.

You allowed your hair to fall, having given up after the twenty first call which went to voice mail. A severe sense of disappointment weighed over you as you wiped away the eyeliner you had actually bothered perfecting for hours, only for him to not have seen it once. 

…

The next sensation you became conscious of was your husband’s scent enveloping you. Your bleary eyes opened to find him leaning over you, arms anchored on either side of you over the comforter, the top two buttons of his shirt undone.

“You’re home,” you murmured in your sleepy haze, “that’s good.”

“I’ll take you another time,” he assured, and you merely shook your head, a wry smile painted on your lips.

“You’re a busy man, you have a corporation to run, I understand. Just come to bed.”

He sighed your name, not for a moment believing your indifference.

“It’s fine, it isn’t the first promise you’ve broken.” The words had sounded harsher than you had meant for it to in your mind.

“Is this about lunch today?”

“No.”

He narrowed his eyes, “what else is there?”

“The fair, tomorrow’s the last day. You said you would at least consider it.”

He wouldn’t respond to it, pulling the comforter higher over you, and asking you to go back to sleep as he slipped away from you.

You couldn’t be sure how long had passed when finally the bed shifted on his side, the musk of his cologne having faded and the fresh scent of his shower gel or his shampoo - you couldn't be sure which - greeting you. Your eyes still closed, you curled against his side, the heat radiating from his bare chest warming the coldness tingling across your prickled skin.

"How are you so cold?" Seto groused, running his palm up and down your arm you had draped over his waist. He pressed his lips against your hairline, again warm on your cold skin. "Why are you wearing my shirt?" he asked, noticing the white dress shirt currently falling past the mid of your thighs.

"It smells like you," you murmured against his chest, pulling yourself closer to him.

He chuckled, seeming genuinely amused, "What?"

"I missed you, it makes me feel safe."

"You were in my office until a few hours ago."

"I wasn't sure you would be coming home tonight," you offered in explanation, and he hummed low in his throat in what you assumed was understanding.

"Stupid girl," he muttered endearingly against your hair, "I always come back to you."

They say when you like a flower, you pluck it and leave it to die, while when you love one, you water it, so you decided to water it, in spite of your own sentiments about being forgotten. 

"You worked hard today," you spoke in a strained whisper, finally opening your eyes and looking up at him, completely unaware that those were the words he had - perhaps unbeknownst to even himself - wanted to hear ever since the day he took upon himself the burden of his corporation.

So to him, it finally felt like coming home. He knew he had come home...to you.

 

 

 


	14. English Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still sick, in fact, I think I’m even sicker. And that inspired this. Enjoy. I welcome all the hateful comments which will surely follow. To all those who think that they’re spamming me by commenting on each chapter they missed, please don’t, I enjoy reading each and every comment and getting back to them - even if at a snail’s pace - it gives me something to do while I’m sick and avoiding real life responsibilities.

You reached your fingers up to his face, resting your fingertips over the pressure points of his eyes, and massaging them gently.

He lowered your arm, “go to sleep.”

“Do you not want me to? Or are you concerned about me?”

“You need to sleep.”

“You’re the one who needs sleep,” you insisted, rubbing circles over his eyes with your fingers again.

He allowed it for a few moments, and you were almost fooled into believing he had fallen asleep with how his breaths evened out.

“The maids tell me you haven’t had dinner.”

“I ordered pizza,” you replied almost startled.

“Yes, I’m aware of that also. That’s not food and you can’t keep eating that crap.”

You merely hummed in response, hand falling back to rest on his chest again.

“What kept you?” you asked, nuzzling your face closer to his chest.

“Would you understand if I told you?”

“Probably not. Have you had dinner?”

He grunted in response. “About the fair,” he began, immediately piquing your attention, plucking you for a moment from your sleep drowned state. “I’ll take you, be ready by seven.”

“Don’t bother if you’re busy.”

“I’m always busy.”

“I have a friend who’ll be in town this week. I can go with him.”

“What friend?” he demanded to know sonorously.

“You wouldn’t know him.”

“Try me.”

“Soryu.”

“Oh Soryu? The mafia boss? Eisuke’s friend?” Seto’s voice grew coarse.

“Yes,” you whispered meekly, having been fully aware that Seto would be well acquainted with Soryu considering his relations with the ice dragon syndicate.

“You will not associate with the likes of him.”

“The likes of him? The man studied at Oxford and runs in our circles. He’s also kinder than people give him credit for.”

Soryu was an attractive young man with jet black hair, no older than Seto, same cold disposition and standing at a similar height. He was likely the closest thing you could consider an old friend, perhaps even a close one. Obviously given his profession, you should have known it wouldn’t be a friendship well received by your husband.

Seto scoffed, “Kind? He’s a mafia heavy weight, it concerns me that you have such close relations with men like him.” And you wondered if his tightened grip around your form was real or imaginary, “do you also realize how many clans want him dead? I will not have you getting caught in the crossfire.”

“You’re overreacting,” you dismissed, moving your fingers up to massage his temples. He didn’t protest this time.

“How well do you know him?”

“Well enough. I’ve known him for a few years, stayed at Eisuke’s casino resort a few times.”

Eisuke, Soryu’s best friend happened to own the largest casino chain in Asia and one of the largest in the world. With locations in Dubai and Vegas, he was a mogul to a multi-billion dollar empire not unlike your husband. He also happened to be adopted, which you thought was an interesting coincidence.

“The Ichinomiyas are an old and reputable family,” Seto acknowledged, referring to Eisuke’s family, “but Eisuke is shady and a womanizer. Why would you associate yourself with people like him?”

“I know what he’s like Seto, been around the man enough many years. He proposed marriage to me when I was seventeen.”

“He did what?” your husband snarled, voice echoing off the walls.

“Soryu had to get involved to convince him against it.”

“I’m sure he had a different agenda, but this is exactly what I mean. These are people who deal weapons and drugs on the black market - hell they control the black market. Why would you hang around characters like that?”

“Being a woman in a position of power you learn very quickly that you need backers Seto. Before you came along, they afforded me that influence.”

“Like you said, that was before me. I don’t want my wife in the same circles as thugs. You’ll besmirch the name of both of our families that way.”

“First of all, both their families are regarded very highly in our social circles and I’m afraid it’s not that easy. We hardly see each other but I am genuinely fond of Soryu, he’s a little rough around the edges but a good guy.”

He barked your name, “you’re too young to understand how the world works, and will get yourself into trouble involving yourself with what you can’t handle.”

“Like you’ve said yourself,” you mimicked his earlier words, “I’m your wife so there’s not much in the way of things I can’t handle. Is there...anything you can’t handle Seto?”

“Don’t create unnecessary messes for me to clean up,” he growled.

“When have I ever done that?” you bit back.

“What you’re implying - “ he sighed, interrupting himself. “You’re influential I admit but you’re young and a good kid,” he began again, “and those men have the potential to ruin that. I can’t always watch over you. There will always be blindspots. I expect you to listen to me. Stay away from him.”

“I won’t go to the fair with him.”

“You know well that’s not what I’m asking you!” his voice thundered, startling you. Your fingers fell away from his hair.

“You’re scaring me,” you flinched.

“I’m only speaking in your best interest.”

“It’s past two a.m, go to sleep,” you spoke, distracting from the current topic causing friction.

“It’s only past one,” he corrected, wishing he had the time to stay awake. “I spoke to the board about the merger,” he spoke after a few moments spent in silence, “and next week - “

“I understand you’re busy,” you cut him off, “and I didn’t expect everything you’ve become coming into this marriage, but I feel like we hardly spend time together anymore and you only want me for work or for sex. Just go to sleep, I don’t want to talk to you about work in bed.”

“If you have something to say, say it.”

“Alright, here’s a few choice words on how I’ve been feeling about this relationship recently. I feel like I’m fucking my business partner.”

“Where the hell is this coming from?”

“You... you’re not very sentimental I get that, but I‘m not like that Seto. Sex doesn’t make me happy. I mean you make me feel good, amazing even and I’m always willing to be with you that way, but I still need you to be present emotionally in my life. And I know I’m asking for too much, so that’s why I said you should just go to sleep.”

“In other words you’re not happy in this marriage.”

“No Seto,” you sighed, meaning to continue when he interrupted.

“I am trying.” His tone was heart wrenchingly sincere.

“No, I meant, I am not unhappy. In fact, you’ve made me the happiest I’ve been but unlike with other people, when you promise things, I always believed that you mean it, and I hold my breath on it you know?”

You wouldn’t know but it hit a nerve hearing you had trusted him.

“Be ready by seven like I said. I’ll make up for everything tomorrow night.”

“You better show up with flowers to make up for today,” you grumbled, “I even made an effort to make sure my right eyeliner matched my left for you.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Never-mind.”

“Are you tired?”

“Not really,” You lied, “why?”

“Good,” he husked, crushing his lips against yours fiercely while forcing you on your back and clambering over you. “I waited all day for this.”

“What are you doing?” you gasped, palms against his chest.

“Drop the innocent act, I don’t have the patience for it,” he spoke hoarsely, voice darkened by lust as his long fingers reached for your buttons on his shirt.

Your hands fell folded against your pillow, breathing growing wild, chest rising and falling rapidly with anticipation as you allowed your husband to strip you. The shirt fell open over the sheets, exposing you entirely to him.

He leaned over, his hand clutching your right breast tightly around the base, as his mouth closed over it, sucking you in harshly. Your fingers dove for his hair, and his blue eyes which reminded you of a stormy ocean lifted to meet yours, his lips pulling away to suck on your nipple, before his teeth began to grind and nip against it. He sucked your breast in repeatedly, noisily pulling away each time, his right hand massaging your left breast, rolling your nipple between his thumb and his forefinger, pinching it just enough for you to feel it. You arched into him, moaning wantonly.

You could feel one hand leaving your breast, fingers ghosting down your bare skin before slipping one into your wet heat, followed by another. You mewled at the fullness before a piping scream ripped out of you as he stretched your walls with his fingers. Then suddenly he pulled away, lips leaving your nipple, and his fingers from your inner heat.

You merely watched him, disappointment clearly painted over your face, erratic breathing hindering you from speaking.

He hovered over you, head hung forward, “You’re still not on birth control are you?”

You shook your head no.

He panted a string of profanities before collapsing next to you, drawing you flush against him.

“Will you be alright?” you questioned, colour spilling across your cheeks as you felt the bulge pressing against your leg.

“Are you willing to do something about it?”

“No,” you squeaked.

“Then don’t bother asking about it and let me get some sleep.”

“You don’t have to be so mean about it. I’m under no obligation to sleep with you, sex wasn’t part of the contract.”

He turned your face to meet his stern gaze, “and by that logic I’m under no obligation to take you to something as ridiculous as the fair.”

“But I do sleep with you though,” you quickly back peddled.

His deep laugh rumbled against your back, carrying through the room in roaring waves. “And that’s business my love.” His hand slipped under your open shirt, clasping his hand over your breast, planting a kiss on the back of your neck as he fondled you lightly. You mewled at his touch and he hissed. “Stop making noise,” he said sonorously, as he continuously rolled his thumb over your nipple, while slipping his hand under you, between your legs. “And let your husband sleep like a good girl.” You could tell by the second wave of laughter which echoed that he revelled in tormenting you this way for depriving him.

  
...

  
You woke up to a pair of ocean blue eyes staring back at you, for once, completely undistracted.

“Morning,” he greeted, a sarcastic undertone which you failed to place lifting his tone.

“Morning,” you returned apprehensively. “Sorry, did we have sex last night?” you questioned your husband, unable to recall much from the previous night, only feeling a tenderness between your legs.

“No,” he rasped, hot breath pouring over your ear, “but you woke up in the middle of the night asking for it.”

That sarcastic undertone fell perfectly into place now. You had no recollection of his claims.

“I don’t remember any of this...I didn’t...I did?” you squealed, attempting to bury your head in your pillow, willing to evaporate from your current existence. His smirk merely grew wider. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he spoke with a smug expression adorning his features, “it‘s highly amusing being woken up by your wife that way.”

“Stop that,” you whined, hitting his chest, “why are you like this?”

“What is is that they call you?”

“Don’t you have work to get to? And people to fire? Souls to destroy?”

“I can spare some time for my wife.”

The bastard was as smug as the cat that ate the damn canary.

It wouldn’t occur to you that this was his attempt at being emotionally present.

You hooked your arms around his neck, drawing yourself against him, needing to feel his bare skin against your exposed chest. He returned your embrace, resting his chin on your crown.

“I wish we didn’t have to go to work.”

“Corporations don’t run themselves kid.”

You cursed incoherently before a completely different train of thought occurred to you, “You know, you still haven’t give me that list I asked you to compile.”

He spoke your name in exasperation, “There’s nothing in there that will make you happy.”

“As the president of a multi-billion dollar corporation, there’s not many things that make me happy on a daily basis Seto.”

“Fine,” he growled, tearing away from you and stepping off the bed. Walking around the foot of the bed, he retrieved his suitcase he had discarded against your nightstand the night before. You sat up, and turned to face him, the sheets falling away to your waist, as he all but slammed the briefcase on your side of the bed, opening it roughly. A disturbingly dense stack of papers were thrown on your lap and the briefcase promptly dropped back on the floor.

You flipped through the stack, stricken with mild horror at the sheer number of pages.

“Seto, there’s over thirty pages on here, and even if each one was given two pages - “ you ran your fingers through your hair in distress, “even if there were two pages, which there isn’t - “

“There’s nineteen women on - “

“Nineteen?” your screeched, voice inflecting to a piping pitch before falling to an inaudible, breathy whisper, “my god...you’ve slept around.” You sat there for another moment, eyes resting blankly on the pages curled between your fingers, unable to form a thought. “I feel sick,” you spoke unconsciously, feeling a wave of nausea sweeping up your throat.

“I warned you that there wasn’t anything in there that would make you happy. Though to be clear, some of those women I’ve hardly touched, and even that only once.”

You remained perfectly still, only lips hardly moving, “And - and were these women clean did you know? Did - did they consent? Nineteen...good god.”

“Of course they were clean,” he snarled, “and I never touched one that didn’t openly consent.”

“Really? Because on the first - second day,” you corrected yourself, “that we met, you stripped me naked and fingered me without my consent and left me an inch away from - “

“That was an exception,” he insisted interjecting, “I must have lost my mind that night being with you.”

He reached a hand for you and you flinched, “Don’t touch me.”

He sighed your name, “Don’t be a child about this. Any man - “

“No man I know has slept with nineteen women - nineteen, that’s - that’s not even a sensible number, that’s pathological. I don’t know if I’m comfortable sleeping with you anymore or sharing the same bed, oh my god, nineteen,” you repeated, thoroughly disconcerted. “My husband has slept with nineteen women,” you were on the verge of tears. “How are you any better than Eisuke?”

“Ichinomiya takes several women to bed every night, none of mine has left my office. You’re the only one that has been in this mansion and also the only one who has seen me when I’m not fully dressed.”

That was hardly any consolation. You buried your face in your hands, before flicking through the report, noticing a distinguishable pattern. Your eyes studied the photographs of the countless women sprawled across the pages, identifying that all these women had two to three shared attributes.

“Oh my god,” you exclaimed, “you have a type - and it’s not me. Are you even attracted to me sexually? Or do you sleep with me out of obligation?”

“You’re sounding more and more ridiculous,” he shunned your accusation.

You could feel your throat constricting, chest tightening, a sense of intoxicating from being deprived probably oxygen flaming through your lungs. You clasped your hands behind your head, bending forward, forcing your face against the sheets, allowing a muffled scream to leave you.

You heard him calling your name.

“You’re depraved!” you screamed, sitting back up.

He watched you seemingly outraged by your ear-piercing tone for a few moments and you removed yourself from bed.

...

You avoided Seto for the remainder of the morning and ignored him and his attempts to contact you through the rest of the day, driving to your penthouse following your final schedule for the day around late four instead of returning to his mansion.

Early five found you bundled up in a comfortable corner of your sofa, in front of the tv, wrapped in a blanket, wallowing in self-pity over a pint of white chocolate - raspberry truffle Häagen-Dazs as you only partially paid attention to a rerun of Hello Counsellor you hadn’t seen before.

You couldn’t be sure exactly when you had succumbed to the severe deprivation of sleep that came as an occupational hazard, only to wake up to the distant sound of running water in the kitchen behind you.

The television was still playing the same program, though someone had muted it, the living room lights dimmed, a large bouquet of flowers; pink English roses and buds lying on the coffee table in front of you.

Your immediate reaction was to panic, recalling instantly the death threat which had accompanied the last bouquet of flowers you had received. A paralyzingly shiver ran the course of your spine at the memory. There was an unnerving coldness in the air surrounding you, contrasting the warmth which summer had brought with it outside.

You scrambled to stand, to find yourself oriented in a lying position, the blanket pulled up to your chin. A pillow from your bedroom was propped under your neck. There was a distinguishable, familiar scent enveloping you. You couldn’t place it.

“You have a fever,” a deep voice informed you from behind, purposeful footsteps approaching you. Your skin pricked all over, startled.

It was then that you noticed the dark grey suit jacket draped over your shoulders on top of the blanket.

Your husband walked past you, setting down a mug against the coffee table by the bouquet of flowers, before sitting by your feet on the sofa. You observed how the sleeves of his white dress shirt were rolled up, revealing his lean but muscular forearms, navy tie loosened, top two buttons undone. There was an odd surreal sensation to his presence, almost as if you were dreaming, and strangely, you desperately hoped you weren’t. There was a sourness in your palate, a dull ache in your joints, pain against the drums of your ears, you felt as if your head was heavier on one side and you craved his presence.

He reached forward, placing the back of his hand against your forehead, like he had the first morning after you had married, eyebrows furrowing with concern.

“You’re not going to the fair like this,” he stated, and a deep feeling of disappointment stung all over like pins and needles, weighing against your chest. Your first instinct was to dispute him, but you pride which dictated that you would never allow your relationship to resume from where it had come to a screeching halt this morning wouldn’t let you speak. He reached for the flowers, handing them to you, or rather leaving them on your lap over his suit jacket. “English roses,” he clarified, “because you’re English.”

You jeered, “That’s very thoughtful of you, now get out of my house.”

He picked up his mug, leaning back against the backrest with the tv remote in hand.

“We’re married,” he declared, unaffected by your insolence, which was primarily sparked as a result of him refusing to take you to the fair on the count of a common cold, instead changing channels to the six o’clock news, “this is my house as much as it is yours. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

 

 


	15. Unexpected Guests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can actually see the plot from here. Somewhat. Finally. UGH. 
> 
> Things get complicated, sorry. But there was so much fluff in this chapter that it was nauseating, sorry. That will actually continue on to the next chapter, again, sorry. 
> 
> To answer some of the questions, there will be a structured plot in this story. I've agonized about this for many weeks and have come to the realization that my writing and thought process just doesn't work well without plot, so as some of you have guessed, there will be some references to the last fic's plot and characters :D. Without plot, I really would have no motivation to write this, so. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy.

“We’re married,” you repeated, pursing your lips, “that’s what I don’t get.”

“What part are you having trouble following?” he inquired sarcastically, eyes firmly fixed on the television screen.

“What is it about me that attracted you to me? I’m clearly not anything like those bombshells you used to – ” you cleared your throat in discomfort, unable to follow through with vocalizing your train of thought. “I don’t have their measurements to…put it civilly; the buttons around my chest aren’t threatening to burst. I read up on their files and for women in a very different tax bracket, they make me look like the most boring person on this planet. I don’t -- go clubbing or partying every night of the week, in my downtime I bake cookies Seto or cook, that’s literally the most interesting thing about me outside of work. I don’t know the first thing about making you feel good in bed and I’ll be honest, tight clothes make me uncomfortable. I just - look nothing like them.”

“That’s the point,” he stated in a matter-of-fact tone, still not bothering to spare you a glance. “I would never waste my time buying flowers for women of their caliber.”

“Women of their caliber...what- what does that mean? That’s like shopping around for something and buying something else!”

“I would also not waste my evening leaving work early like this to - “

“Would you look at me when I’m speaking to you?” You screamed, finally earning his attention. He turned off the television with the flick of a button without looking.

“You have my undivided attention,” he confirmed, stressing every word with severe infuriation. “There are certain women you sleep with and a very different type of woman you choose to spend the rest of your life with. I’ve outgrown their type. I’ll confess I was attracted at first to your stature, then your influence and your capabilities and after being married to you for months, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll have to confess my feelings for you every week for the rest of my life over something idiotic like this. This isn’t one of your melodramas.”

 

“Are you calling me idiotic?”

“I wasn’t but I’m beginning to feel it’s warranted.”

“Get out.”

He barked your name, “Am I attracted to you sexually? Yes, more than any of those other women I’ve slept with. By marrying you and making it so you were the only woman I could sleep with for the rest of my life, I think I’ve made that pretty damn clear.”

With those words, he stood up abruptly, disappearing into the kitchen. You slid back down against the armrest of your sofa, feeling a crushing heaviness, the sort you feel when you were overly fatigued, pressing down on your lungs, before spreading to weigh over every muscle in your body.

He returned; a tray in hand, and you turned to face your back to him. You felt the cushion behind your waist sinking under his weight.

“Eat this,” he commanded.

“I’m not hungry,” you rejected defiantly.

“I’ve raised a teenager,” he reminded you, “I won’t be put off that easily.”

He would hardly allow you the time to react to those words, turning you harshly to face him. He pulled you up by your arms, before loosening his tie completely and discarding it over the opposite armrest of the sofa.

“Is that...chicken soup?” you inquired, twisting your face sourly as he picked up the stone bowl in one hand, a spoon in the other. He grunted in response. “Did you make it?”

“Where would I have the time? I had it delivered. Open your mouth.”

“I told you I’m not hungry.”

“Eat it, or I will force it down your throat.”

“Wouldn’t be the first thing you’ve forced down my throat,” you snickered, or at least attempted to, only now feeling the full force of your condition affecting you.

“Stop being immature,” he berated, holding out a spoon full.

Reluctantly you accepted it, wondering why a man so notorious for having his temper on an incredibly short leash tolerated you to such a degree.

“It isn’t like there aren’t heiresses that easily fit that type,” he muttered, holding out another spoonful of soup, which again you drank. “Marrying you was a choice.”

“For some of us it was.”

He cursed your name again.

You considered his words.

“I’m glad you came,” you confessed, earning a look which read surprised under a well poised mask of blankness. An unexpected sneeze forced you to regain your already weakened composure before you continued. “I’m not sure what made you like me but honestly, I’m just thankful that whatever it is that you did. I…do love you,” you mumbled, leaning forward and huddling against his arm.

“You’re going to spill this all over and burn yourself,” he scolded, stiffening.

“This is when you tell me you love me too.”

“I’m not enacting Romeo and Juliet with you. You should know that by now.”

...

You woke up to a dimly illuminated living room, a purple light pouring from the television, reflecting collages of purple and blue against the white walls and ceilings. The grainy glow scattered across the dark space, exploding into a kaleidoscope of light through the crystal facets of your chandeliers.

There was muffled noise which wasn’t making much sense emitting from the T.V, a cold, dampness weighing against your forehead.

You saw Seto seated against the opposite armrest, a mug containing what you assumed was coffee from the rich aroma that wafted over, in his right hand, head leaning disinterestedly against his left folded against the armrest; only partially paying attention to what’s playing on the screen before him.

“What language is that?” you inquired in a murmur, discarding the cold cloth on to the coffee table.

“English,” he responded blandly, turned to look at you. “You must really be sick if you can’t recognize your first language,” he remarked, setting down his coffee. “Are you not feeling better?”

“Worse,” you responded honestly, feeling particularly dreadful, “hold me.” It felt strangely comforting having someone to request that of, never previously having that luxury.

“You really are no better than a child. I don’t know what I expected.” You weren’t keen enough to notice the tone of endearment in his voice as he spoke. “Come here,” he growled, snatching you into his arms.

“I really wanted to go to the fair,” you whispered.

“I’ll take you to the one in Tokyo at the end of the week if you’re feeling better by then.”

“You will?” you inquired with elation.

“Given your health improves.”

“Maybe you don’t suck as much,” you spoke audibly enough for him to hear.

“I married a child,” he groused, kicking his feet up on to the coffee table, and folding his arm tightly around your form.

Eventually, you settled against him, resting your head on his chest, legs stretched out across the sofa cushions.

His fingers were moving lightly through your hair.

“So are you done with work for the evening?”

His eyes fell on you, and you assumed the low hum meant he was.

“Have you eaten?”

Another growl low in his throat you assumed also meant yes. “So are you done being a child about everything now?”

“I wasn’t being a child. I needed time to accept your extensive history.”

“Sure kid,” he husked, his signature smirk turning up his lips.

“Stop that, it’s irritating,” you whined, his lips stretching wider.

You shifted to curl up on his lap, drawing the blanket over the both of you. Seto adjusted under you habitually.

“I understand that you don’t want to discuss work at home,” he began, and you immediately groaned. Not discouraged by this in the least, he continued, “but we need to talk about this at some point. I spoke to the board. They’re willing to meet yours as soon as next week.”

“I’m sick,” you moaned, “this is when a normal husband would be loving, and caring, and – ”

“What exactly do you think I’m doing right now?”

You raised an eyebrow, chuckling, “This is you being affectionate? The moment you stopped insulting me, you started talking about work.”

“I could _be_ working right now. I brought my laptop with me.”

“Right,” you scoffed, “and I could be dating someone who had more interest in me than theoretical physics, quantum mechanics and binary code.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about right now do you?” he inquired, laughing. Seto Kaiba was for once actually, openly laughing – at you yes, but laughing none the less. “Well too bad, because you’re married to me.”

“Fuck,” you chortled, apparently intoxicated by the cold medication he had given you earlier, “do me.”

He observed you for a moment, a stoic expression over his features.

“You’re not going to work tomorrow,” he asserted.

“Board meeting,” you continued abruptly, “next week? That should work. I’ll send you a date.”

“If you remember this in the morning,” he growled, reaching for the remote, and increasing the volume.

“We should watch a movie,” you suggested, painfully bored by the mind numbing politics Seto was intently absorbed in on the screen before you.

“After this,” he waved away, paying no attention to the petulance which followed.

He subjected you to endure forty-five more minutes of the garbage before offering you his attention.

“What did you want to watch?”

You named a horror movie that was currently gaining a lot of interest.

“We’re not watching that.”

“Why not?” you whined, attempting to suppress your irritation.

“I’ve done this enough with Mokuba,” he declared knowingly, “I know exactly how this will play out. All this will do is keep me from sleeping when you’re up at night at the stupidest things.”

“I promise I won’t – ”

“You’re also just looking for an excuse to come closer to me and from how I see it, that’s not possible as it is.”

“Damnit Seto, why ask for my opinion if you’re just going to do what you want anyway?”

“Make a sensible suggestion and I’ll follow through with it.”

“Remember my earlier comment about you not sucking so much? I’ll be resigning that,” you sulked, earning a chuckle.

“And my comment about marrying a child stands.”

…

The subsequent ninety minutes followed more or less exact as Seto had predicted. You never having had the nerve to properly watch a horror film in your entire life, found yourself huddled against his side, face tucked into his chest, eyes shut tightly and desperately gripping on to his dress shirt, flinching under each eerie crack and echo which reverberated from the large screen. Apparently, these things were no less frightening when watched with your husband.

“Wake up,” you heard followed by gentle shaking. Your subconscious mind which had been under the impression that you had been awake grew disoriented. “I knew this would happen,” you heard muttered under his breath.

Your eyes peeled open rather reluctantly, only then accepting that you had in fact fallen asleep. Your eyes afforded you a room drowned in poorly lit obscurity, with Seto leaning over you, his attire fairly different from what you remembered.

“Where did you have the clothes to change into?” you questioned groggily, bleary eyes observing the dark pants and navy shirt.

“I had Isono bring them.”

You nodded your head inattentively.

“What about the movie?”

“Ended two hours ago,” he replied, mild irritation apparent. 

“Are we staying the night here then?”

“Do you not want to?”

You sighed, eyes darting in the direction of the main entrance, recalling the rather violent incident which had transpired the previous time.

“It’s not bothering me as much as I thought it would.”

“It shouldn’t. No one died,” your husband dismissed in a manner which you felt delivered his thoughts more callously than needed, before wandering into the kitchen.

You pulled yourself higher against the armrest, blanket pooling over your folded knees, eyes absently falling over the darkened city beyond the glass wall which stretched the entire length of your living room behind your sofa, not admiring as it deserved the ruby, golden and amethyst lights studded into the obscure structures under the veil of night.

“I’ll drive you home tomorrow morning before work,” you heard Seto call from the kitchen, the sound of running water distracting from his voice. You heard him continue to speak, though behind a wall of rushing water, his words were imperceptible and so you forced yourself unsteadily to your feet, and made the trek to the kitchen.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I wasn’t speaking to you,” he quickly pocketed his phone.

“Who _were_ you speaking to?” you inquired, your suspicions aroused.

“Isono.”

“About?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” he insisted.

“I’m your wife, there is no such thing.”

He watched you almost apprehensively for a moment, before beckoning you over. You walked around the counter, and he wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin over your head.

You decided to not pursue what he seemed too reserved to elaborate.

“The last time we were here I was pregnant,” you recalled wistfully, and you sensed him discernibly stiffen. He merely hummed in response. “I think about those times a lot. I would be four months along by now had I been more careful. You would have had a son or a daughter before the end of the year.”

Seto finally elected to speak, “It wasn’t your fault.” His voice had fallen to a spine chillingly deep register.

“Not yours either,” you whispered, remembering his brother’s words. You paused to collect your thoughts for a moment, your current condition leading you to feel your usually suppressed emotions more intensely. “You slept with me three times while I was off the pill for over a week…and I still couldn’t get pregnant.”

“Stop doing reckless things,” he scolded.

“I feel useless,” you confessed.

“When you’re ready, I’ll make sure you’re pregnant. In the meanwhile, stop trying to jeopardize your life and your career. There’s no real reason for us to have a child right now.”

“In families like ours, I’m considered useless if we can’t have children. You’re almost thirty –”

“Like I said, when the time comes,” he growled, “I’ll take care of it.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“I do.”

He had spoken with such conviction and fortitude that it almost convinced you.

You turned in his embrace, raising your arms to hold him. You could feel the warmth of his one hand over the bare skin of your back, the other clutching your pink satin slip nightgown.

He began to speak, something about artificial intelligence you couldn’t grasp; you typically waited for him to finish his sentences to make sense of his words – stringing together meaning from the ones you understood. He wouldn’t have the opportunity to complete what he had intended to, and subsequently you wouldn’t know what he had been attempting to convey as the suite doorbell rang. You hadn’t buzzed anyone up.

You stiffened, though perhaps that was a mild interpretation as realistically, you grew petrified, a discernible shiver coursing under your skin.

Your widened eyes didn’t conceal your alarm as they met your husband’s narrowed to slits.

“Were you expecting someone?” Your stunned silence provided a sufficient response to his question, and he offered to answer the door.

Refusing his offer, you slipped away from him. Reaching the video feed from the front door, you recognized the man towering before it. The hesitation in your reaction was only a result of how unanticipated his arrival was rather than averseness to his presence.  

Glancing over your shoulder having sensed movement behind you, you could see your husband emerge from the kitchen in your peripheral. For a man who continually insisted that the danger had passed, you couldn’t help but question the uncharacteristic tenseness he was exuding.

Convincing yourself that you were feeding meaning into gestures due to your own paranoia, you unlocked the door. Swinging it open, the tall, lean figure collapsed over you, fingers grasping the back of your nightgown as your husband had moments earlier.

Given his occupation, your immediate reaction was to check for injuries, but in an incoherent slur, leaning over your shoulder, crushing you with a considerable distribution of his weight, he assured he was fine.

The heavy, suffocating and bitter aroma masking his cologne that his suit jacket was soaked in was the next to greet you and his current condition made sense a great deal more.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Seto barked, seemingly materializing beside you, heaving the dark haired man who matched his height off of your small form.

“I came to see my woman,” Soryu replied, pulling away from Seto, and anchoring an arm against the wall, standing upright.


	16. Normalcy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a mind numbingly domestic chapter for all of you who requested domestic. 
> 
> I also had no clue where to end this because it seemed to drag on a bit. So hope you don’t mind where I cut it off. 
> 
> I also noticed that everyone seems to be playing catch up with the fic right now with school and life obligations so I might take a break from the updates, though I’m not too sure, so let me know :)

The door locked behind you with a sharp click, punctuating the momentary silence which ensued before Seto’s hands dove for Soryu’s collar, fingers balling into fists around his navy suit jacket. Soryu’s hands clenched around Seto’s in response, his intoxication hindering a formidable response.

Knowing well the violent predispositions of both these men, you couldn’t fathom a favourable conclusion and a terror inducing wave of déjà vu swept over you, drawing parallels between what was unfolding before you and the bloody exchange of fists and blades your husband had had months prior with the assassin at your doorstep.

You collapsed against the foyer wall, clutching your stomach out of instinct as you had then, a sharp, phantom pain resurfacing in your abdomen.

You couldn’t be sure if it was the thump which echoed as your back met the stone wall, or if you had unwittingly cried out in pain and fear, for Seto released his grip, moving to kneel in front of you.

There was a frightening sense of detachment from reality which had overcome you, leaving you to witness your surroundings passively, the way one watched a silent, black and white film. Perhaps as a result of the cold medication and pain killers your husband had given you, everything also seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace, your reactions and responses lagging. You could feel yourself struggling to breath, a familiar sensation of air not reaching your lungs burning through your thorax.

You heard your name being called, two voices asking you what was wrong.

You couldn’t place your fear anymore; you were simply afraid of everything. You couldn’t find it in yourself to remember what had triggered the overwhelming sense of dread, unable to recall that long gone incident involving the assassin.

“Please don’t fight,” you spoke in a small voice to no one in particular, subconsciously believing that neither men would listen to you.

“Get up,” your husband’s voice tore through the haze surrounding your mind, “you’re in no condition to be sitting there,” he scolded, only then bringing to your attention that you had slid down to the floor.

  
...

 

You were curled against a comfortable warmth; rather, there was a warmth all around you. You could feel a tolerable weight over you, a cold moistness on your forehead, a golden light spilling through your closed eyes. Opening your heavy lids, you found yourself in your old bedroom, surrounded by your husband’s lean form under the comforter. Seto was reading a book, pair of thinly framed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose as he leaned over you, a shoulder resting against the headboard. Your head was resting against the crook of his elbow, his arm holding the book folding under you.

You hadn’t noticed yourself losing consciousness, though perhaps one could never truly be conscious of the loss of said consciousness.

His gaze fell to you as you stirred, a stern expression to his countenance.

“You fainted from a hundred and three degree fever, not your anxiety attack. I had our personal physician examine you and you should be fine.”

“Where’s Soryu?” was the first tangible thought you could form, and his expression grew increasingly more ominous.

“That’s what you’re concerned about?”

“Yes. Where is he?”

“He’s gone. I may not like Oh but he’s an educated man,” Seto spoke decisively, brows furrowing, “we came to an understanding.”

“What - what does that mean?” You begged for him to elaborate.

“It means he has a clear understanding of who’s woman you are.”

“You didn’t hurt him! Is he okay?”

“Of course he is, we talked it through like civilized men.”

Somehow you found that hard to believe.

“Are you okay?” your voice spiked with concern.

“Nothing happened,” he dismissed with irritation. “What I’m interested in, is what sort of relations you’ve had with this man that gave him the impression that it was warranted for him to barge in here at ten at night, claiming you to be his woman?”

“Are you accusing me of something?”

“No, but you have a track record of giving men the wrong impression.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you questioned peering up, line forming between your brows.

“You’re too damn inviting.”

”Your words are harsh,” you countered, finding yourself on the verge of tears, “I’ve known him since I was in high school, and him being your age, he kept me out of trouble. I couldn’t begin to imagine what gave him - ”

“You can’t imagine?” Seto scoffed, removing the cold cloth from your forehead, “I’m sure you can’t.”

Seto leaned away, discarding the wet clothe over the edge of the glass basin sitting on the nightstand behind him, before closing the book between his fingers and dropping it beside your pillow behind you.

You sighed, “Whatever you’re accusing me of, this whole argument, is this going to get us anywhere? Or are we going to waste a good hour of our lives on this and then spend the next seventy something years married to each other regardless?”

He sighed conceding, and you tugged on his shirt, urging him to slide down beside you. He watched you calculatingly for a moment, combing his fingers through his silky hair, attempting to subside his exasperation.

“Don’t look at me with those eyes,” he groused, removing his glasses and slipping under the sheets next to you, his arm still under your head. You received the shift in his tone as an invitation to move closer to him, and as you did, nuzzling against his chest, he draped his arm over your small waist, sighing once again.

You held yourself very close to him for a moment before looking up at him. He was already peering down at you with azure eyes which read unrestrained confusion at your abrupt shift in dispositions.

“If we are going to the fair on Friday,” you inquired, “then are we leaving for New York right after?”

“ _If_ being the operative word,” he stated blandly, “I doubt you’ll be better by then.”

You could try to convince him until you were blue in the face, and he still wouldn’t believe you could possibly have recovered by Friday if his convictions were made up otherwise.

“Hypothetically speaking.”

“Hypothetically speaking, yes. We’ll fly out of Tokyo.”

“I’m assuming your jet?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Hardly matters who’s jet we take,” you spoke indifferently. “Did you send the on-boarding paperwork for that new hire?”

“Which?”

“Your junior from high school who called you senpai.”

He released a low hum in response, “Why?”

“Just wondering. It’ll be interesting to see what she’s capable of.”

“You’re taking this better than I had hoped.”

“How had you thought I would have?”

“I had expected much more animosity,” he admitted.

“Towards her? Hardly. If she even looks at you inappropriately though, she’ll learn why I’m the woman you chose to marry and not her.”

Seemingly amused by this declaration, he allowed his lips to tug vaguely into a smirk. Your eyes wandered absently to the unlit chandelier in your peripheral, simply listening to his deep, even breaths against your temple, allowing the repeated motion to drown your consciousness.

Some evenings felt exceptionally long, perhaps as a result of nothing happening at all, or in some instances due to the exact opposite. This particular evening you felt, everything happened; Seto came home early, he brought you flowers, the two of you watched a movie together, Soryu unexpectedly appeared at your front door, and yet, having slept through most of it, you felt nothing of consequence really happened.

“Thank you for the flowers,” you finally remembered to say, “I’m not sure how you knew I liked English roses though. No one has ever bought them for me.”

“You said it in an interview,” he spoke as if it was the most obvious fact, “years ago.”

“I like how good looking guys get away with being stalkerish,” you giggled.

“Are you calling me a stalker?”

“I’m saying you get away with it, so I guess what I’m really calling you is good looking. Also, not to ruin the moment but I’m hungry.”

“It never ceases to amaze me how bipolar you can be. One moment you’re threatening to crush my employees with the weight of your corporation, and the next you’re telling me you’re hungry. What do you want to eat?”

“Food,” you joked, earning a growl.

“Obviously.”

“Pizza!”

“Absolutely not,” he rejected, picking up his phone off the nightstand and dialling a number. “It’s me,” he husked, “have two of my usual delivered from Teji.” He covered the phone, looking down at you, “chicken or beef?”

“What are you even ordering?”

“Both,” he spoke again into his phone, seemingly not possessing the patience to elaborate, then promptly hanging up.

“Teji? Like that Korean place? Isn’t their food really spicy? You’re actually letting me?”

“I’m making an exception because you’re sick,” he offered, picking his book back up and reaching for his glasses again, pulling himself back up against the headboard, and flipping to an exact, memorized page, beginning to read again wordlessly, trapping you in the crook of his arm.

“What are you reading?” you asked, following a few moments of silence, having grown bored.

“War and Peace,” he responded flatly, a tinge of dismissal in his tone.

“You’re reading that only now?”

“This would be the third time,” he clarified. You always fancied him the type of man to grow attached to something, whether the mere idea of it or the actual content, and never tire of his attachment. He had the tendency to dispose himself to a certain pursuit or individual and never fall out from that obsession, whether that be with his card games or his company. His statement now only stood to reaffirm your conclusion. It was an odd place to find solace but it afforded you relief knowing that once he was truly taken by something or in your case, someone, he would never quite recover.

“Why?”

“Why what?” he raised his brow, evidently annoyed by your constant interruptions.

“Why read that book of all things that many times?”

“It is one of the, if not the best novel ever written,” he declared, “it’s very telling of human nature, and portrays it with a rawness that most novels and authors, especially in that era fail to comprehend and capture. There’s no romanticization of the human condition and it erases the idea of heroism and does away with literary archetypes. Perhaps most importantly, the lens is fluid, in that it’s not one stale portrayal of an event by one person. And consequently, each time you read it, you will never interpret the event the same, thus one could never truly tire from it.”

“I’ve never cared much for it,” you confessed, observing the unconcealed ire that bloomed across his features. It almost read disdain for what you sure he concluded to be your simple minded opinion, so you attempted to elaborate, “I can appreciate the themes and the overall design of the plot but I just find Tolstoy’s writing style to be dreadfully boring. The only redemption among his works to me personally was Anna Karenina, which I’m sure you love to hate. The characters are interesting sure, but I never cared much for the political backdrop and even you can’t deny that the book starts off with the most tragically atrocious lines in literary history.”

“You hate Tolstoy, I get it,” your husband spoke rather resentfully, having placed you under his intense scrutiny through his spectacles for a few drawn minutes.

“I don’t see why literature has to be admired for literature’s sake. I can appreciate their contribution and not personally be fond to it.”

“Spoken like a true millennial,” he groused, returning his attention to the book, “why do you have this in your study if you hate it?”

“I didn’t, my step father bought it when I was being privately tutored, and when I moved here after he — from his house, I brought all my books with me. My high school of course never cared much for English literature though and none of them got much use after.”

“You realize we went to the same high school don’t you?”

“Ah, yes,” you tittered, “I barely showed up because of schedules but even girls in my year and the year below me had your photo plastered on their locker. If only they knew back then.”

“I’m sure,” he rasped, seemingly disinterested and perhaps even mildly annoyed.

Pacified by his deep breaths, succumbing to the throbbing headache your fever brought on which demanded sleep, you found yourself drifting in and out of a comfortable slumber, occasionally registering the glances your husband spared your way, always wondering at the back of your mind how he managed to stay so perfectly still in the same attitude without growing sore.

...

“You need to take better care of yourself,” you told him, reaching your fingers to trace along his dark circles.

He was sitting on your sofa, you with your legs crossed on the carpet as the two of you ate dinner.

“That’s rich coming from you,” he remarked, swiping your hand away with his holding his chopsticks.

“I’m serious,” you scolded, “you’re closer to thirty than you are to twenty. More nights like this would do you well.”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be giving me advise.”

“All I’m saying is that I wish you came home at a reasonable time more often,” you pouted, gaze falling over your bowl, “your secretaries spend more time with you than your wife.”

You felt his hand resting over your hair, ruffling it.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

You looked up over your shoulder at him, a mirthful expression gracing your features, to be met with a very faint smile.

  
...

He drove you back to the mansion at an absurd hour of the morning, hours before day break. In fact, as you sat with him for breakfast, it was navy hued darkness which poured in through the drawn curtains of the grand dining room.

You watched over your plate, an unrestrained sourness to your gaze, your lip turned up with a hint of disgust as the aroma which wafted up from your traditional English breakfast caused your stomach to churn.

Explaining that you lacked an appetite to your husband didn’t digest well with him, accusing you of finding excuses to avoid your meals, and he was no more convinced when you were bent over in the bathroom, emptying the contents of your stomach you weren’t even aware you had.

You resigned yourself to quite literally burying yourself under the sheets, only distantly paying attention to your husband getting dressed for work.

“Are you alright?” he inquired as he sat on the edge of the bed by your feet, tying the laces of his dress shoes, before reaching over, checking your temperature with the back of his hand. “You’re burning up. Did you take your medication?”

“I did,” you croaked, “everything hurts.”

It wasn’t an exaggeration either, there was a pulsating cramp in your lower abdomen, a crushing weight behind your lungs, nausea ravaging your throat, and an inescapable headache attempting to render your skull insensate.

“Everything?” he arched an eyebrow as he picked up his briefcase, “do you need to see a doctor again?”

“No,” you shook your head, before reaching for the edge of his sleeve, urging him to turn back, “can you pick up some anmitsu on your way back? All of my department stores carry it. I’m craving it for some reason.”

He watched you with a critical eye which also borderline read concern for a reason beyond you.

Agreeing, he left you to your devices, which, being as stubborn as you were, the morning saw you forcing yourself to slave over paperwork, a messy combination of contracts and documents sprawled on the sheets over you.

Too troubled by your guilty conscience to - what in your definition regarded slacking - spend the morning sleeping, you continued to deny yourself rest despite your own body’s warnings. This would backfire as you would soon come to learn though, feeling as if your body was inflicting on itself some form of medieval torture ritual as the morning progressed. Overcome with the sensation of every bone and muscle in your body being crushed under the weight of a thousand anvils, you finally grew unnerved and called Seto.

Your calls were redirected to voicemail one after the other. Growing restless, you settled on messaging him, relaying the severity of your condition.

“I’m in a meeting and I just got here,” was his response, “do you really expect me to come back to you because of a bad cold?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Anmitsu is and has been popular summer sweets among Japanese people for many decades. It’s a bowl of dessert filled with anko(red bean paste),fruits,agar(jelly),gyuhi(soft&sweet mochi) and ice cream. The one without anko is called “Mitsumame”. They are normally served with black sugar syrup “Kuromitsu”.
> 
> Most of these wagashi, or sweets are found at the turn of the season, with each season offering distinct flavours to celebrate the coming season.
> 
> On an additional note, to anyone disappointment with how Seto dealt with Soryu, just keep in mind that Seto is a businessman first before he is reckless and impulsive, so the chances of him ruining his connections because of a woman is unlikely.


	17. Everyday Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one ended in a weird spot, mostly because it was one chapter broken into two. The reason I chose to leave it here I did was because the next chapter’s tone is drastically different from this one so it felt odd to lump together, anyway, enjoy!
> 
> Ten points to you if you guess which group - that is currently wrecking my life by falling apart on me - sings the song the title was inspired by.

Seto Kaiba was always unnervingly self-possessed. Composed in a way which had the effect of inflicting upon those around him the exact opposite. He was utterly imperturbable; immune to practically everything and yet as the minutes until the meeting‘s conclusion dwindled at an aggravatingly slow pace, the young CEO couldn’t seem to concentrate on the words leaving the older president seated across the boardroom from him, thoughts failing to distract from his wife’s earlier message.

He had replied, exuding great confidence that her condition was nothing requiring his attention or concern, but in spite of this, he found his own thoughts disagreeing with his earlier verdict, an unfamiliar sense of panic and agitation beginning to set in underneath the perfectly poised mask of calm. Leaned forward on his lace fingers, there were storms brewing behind those ocean blue eyes.

He stood abruptly, apologizing impassively to the executives of his partner’s board, before briskly departing from the room, not bothering to spare an explanation for his sudden need to be elsewhere.

He debated whether he had the time to fulfill his wife’s request, before assigning the task to Isono when you failed to answer his phone calls.

Driving back to you in a maddened trance, he threw the Bluetooth device against the floor of his car at the fourteenth call that was redirected to your voicemail, cursing your name.

A harrowing feeling of dread was currently impaling his conscience as he grew convinced that he had allowed harm to befall you by being neglectful during a decisive moment. You almost never shared your issues concerning your health with him and perhaps he should have regarded your message with more seriousness.

...

You awoke to a familiar rhythm of fingers steadily meeting keys. You released an unwitting moan feeling the debilitating headache reclaim your head, pain spilling into your vision, rendering it blurry and blue. You felt the coldness against your forehead momentarily replaced with warm flesh, before the moist coldness was laid over your skin again.

You opened your eyes, the typing had ceased.

“You forgot to take your painkillers this morning,” a rough voice berated, “You overreacted,” he cursed your name, “do you have any idea what was running through my mind as I was driving home?”

You turned your head to find your husband leaning against the headboard, his laptop resting on his legs over the covers.

“You came,” you offered your husband a small smile.

“Yes, I abandoned a crucial meeting in securing a multi-million dollar deal for you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“As if that makes a difference now.”

“If there’s anything I can do to save that deal for you, I’ll do it,” you swore, weakly pulling yourself up against the headboard.

“It was president Hwang,” he informed, “I explained to him I left to tend to you and he seemed appeased.”

“I see. That’s a relief.”

“What you asked for,” he abruptly leaned over towards his nightstand, carelessly dropping a white bag with black embossed writing you recognized on your lap.

You peered into the bag, discarding the crumpled decorative tissue, a wide smile pouring over your lips.

“Thank you,” you spoke with childish mirth, elated that he had remembered.

“I didn’t know what you would like,” he said, “so I had Isono pick up everything.”

That explained why a bag of confections was the size of one containing a pair of Burberry boots.

“You really are the best,” you marvelled, eliciting from him no more than an unimpressed scowl.

“Now that you’re awake, I’ll be in my study if you need me,” he extended flatly in explanation before collecting his laptop and files spread over the sheets.

You set down the bag on your nightstand, watching him for a moment.

You knew you shouldn’t have, but you swung your legs over the edge of the bed, preparing to gather the comforter into your arms.

“What are you doing?” he questioned, perplexity overshadowing irritation in his tone.

“I’m coming with you.”

“What?” his voice scraped your ear.

“I’ll feel better being where you are.”

You were obviously testing his patience, that much was apparent from how his expression twitched, attempting to curb his frustration.

“You need rest,” he disagreed, masterfully restricting his tone from climbing to convey the irritation he was likely feeling, “and there’s no where in my study you can do that.”

“The chaise is perfectly - “

He interrupted, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

“Get some sleep, I’ll come check on you when I can,” he spoke, forcefully holding his tone at a relatively gentle register, walking around the emperor bed in long strides up to you.

He forced you back on the bed, drawing the covers over you in spite of your protests.

“Sleep,” he repeated sonorously, before gathering his work materials and stalking out the bedroom.

Lunch was sent up to your room, an unappetizing and nauseating - though likely as a result of your present condition - combination of rice, soup and side dishes which immediately sent your agitated stomach into overdrive. You asked for the rice to be removed immediately, though even the rest of the contents you hardly found edible, eventually sending the tray back almost in the same condition it had come; untouched.

No more than a few minutes must have passed before your husband stormed into the room, tearing the covers off of you who was gradually drifting to sleep.

“I’m told you didn’t eat,” he barked.

“The smell nauseates me,” you explained, even now feeling the bile climbing your throat.

“The smell of what?”

“The rice mainly, but even the side dishes.”

“What can you eat?” His inquiry may have been thoughtful and generous but his tone certainly was not.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not an answer. I don’t have time to babysit you all day. What can you eat?” he repeated.

You couldn’t as you usually did, remark bitterly about how you didn’t need his concern, given you had indeed called him home in the middle of a work day.

“I had some of the soup,” you spoke after some thought.

“I’ll have them send you another bowl of soup then,” he said, before disappearing once again from the room.

Dinner passed in a similar fashion; that is, with your husband absent and you eventually fell asleep again waiting for him to come to bed.

You were awoken the next morning by the distant sound of running water, likely in the shower or perhaps it was the sink as your husband shaved, and while you couldn’t be sure in your half awake state, it was probably the former. The next sensation you became aware of was a familiar warmth against your forehead. You opened your eyes to find Seto bent over your side of the bed, the back of his hand leaving your face; his body exposed except for the towel wrapped questionably low around his hip.

“You feel better than yesterday,” he remarked, noting you were awake.

“Morning,” you murmured groggily, smiling to yourself as his scent enveloped you. “When did you come to bed last night?”

“I didn’t,” he declared blandly, motioning to walk towards the closet.

You seized hold of his wrist.

“Seto,” you called accusingly, “did you pass out in your study again?”

He groaned, “I checked on you, don’t worry.”

“That’s not what I’m worrying about,” you chided, tightening your grip on his wrist, “come here,” you urged, pulling him to sit on the bed. He complied much to your pleasant surprise, “look at these dark circles,” you criticized, ghosting your fingers under his eyes, observing how sleep deprivation had pigmented his under-eyes a few shades darker than his skin.

A strange, unreadable smirk found his lips.

“Are you worrying about me?” he husked, wrapping his fingers around your chin, effectively sending a shiver down your spine.

“Of course I am, you’re my husband,” you reminded, “who else would I have to worry about?”

His smirk tugged further upwards before he lifted his arm you were holding captive, motioning for you to release him.

Seto left for work soon after, and with the exception of the couple waves of nausea your body was forced to succumb to early that morning, your overall condition seemed to have improved a great deal.

You couldn’t be sure when he returned home that night, only that you were roused by the soft rustling of sheets and the mattress shifting beside you. An arm snaked underneath you, you vaguely recalled, reeling you in; a hand meeting your back gently at even intervals, lulling you back to sleep when you stirred.

...

You felt a warmth press against your lips as your eyes fluttered open; his lips were slightly dry, though not chapped, and you could feel a sensation akin to a wave of pins and needles rushing through your face from where his lips touched. You smiled into the kiss, content to wake up beside your husband.

“So about the fair,” you murmured, watching how his face lost what semblance of expression it had previously contained.

“I’ll pick you up from your office around five,” he informed flatly.

“And dinner?”

He ran his fingers through his tousled locks.

“I’ll have reservations made in Tokyo...Don’t,” he practically bit the last word, “even ask me about a drive, I’m driving you to Tokyo for some stupid children’s fair.”

“I don’t recall even entertaining that thought,” you responded coyly, before dissolving into laughter as he left the bed, muttering inaudible insults. “And for your information,” you raised your voice so you could be heard in the bathroom where he was preparing to shave, “it’s not some stupid children’s fair!”

...

You could never recall a board meeting you enjoyed, and yet each time you made your way to one, you fruitlessly attempted to remember one; just one where you didn’t leave with the urge to pull out your hair in fistfuls or at the very least contemplate if your connections were influential enough to waiver a murder charge.

You always made an attempt to wear a good outfit to deflect the negativity that you would surely be on the receiving end of and this morning found you in a black blazer dress with satin lapels, cinched at the waist with a thin black leather belt with a gold accent and black patent oxfords, though of course, not even a twelve thousand dollar Chanel outfit could shield you from the morons you employed.

Sliding off your dark, Prada sunglasses, you set down your gold embellished D&G box clutch pointedly against the head of the boardroom table, effectively gaining the attention of the two dozen board members prattling amongst themselves.

You swept your straightened hair over your shoulder as you say down, receiving a dissonant collection of ‘good mornings,’ from the suits.

“As I’m sure you have gathered if you read the memo for today’s meeting,” you spoke succinctly, eyes boring the distant wall across from you, not bothering to spare a glance at anyone in particular, “we’ll be discussing a potential merger with Kaiba Corp. Though to be perfectly clear, this ‘merger’ will actually be more of a permanent, on-going partnership, and as such, your usual M&A procedures will not go into effect. We will be combining business operations with my husband’s corporation however given the nature of the partnership, there will be no lay-offs, shift in employee structures, departments or hierarchy and the executive teams will stay independent of each other. I expect you all to always act in the best interest of Kodama, despite our alliance with the Kaiba Corporation, is that understood?” You received a disorderly round of nods and resounding agreements in various forms. “We will be holding a vote to get a gage of what this board thinks of the partnership,” you explained, mentally adding that ‘it would hardly make a difference what you windbags had to say considering my vote will overturn whatever decision made,’ “and that will take place following any questions you may have for me.”

“Yes, I have a question,” Uyeda Nakamura, the chief director of your board drawled, “will SKO be affected by this partnership?”

“I imagine the entire conglomerate will be affected to some degree,” you returned flatly, “but SKO, along with all the other affiliate groups will be independent of this partnership and will continue to function as is.”

The greying gentleman nodded in understanding.

You motioned with your hand for the secretaries to distribute the roughly drawn contract to all the directors.

“Director Yamamura,” you diverted your attention to your legal director, “have the contract reviewed and finalized with your team. My husband and I will be away in New York for the greater part of next week, so I’m hoping to meet the KC board Friday next week, exactly a week from today. Have it ready by then.” The middle aged gentleman in the green suit offered a curt bow of his head in response. “Also,” your eyes narrowed dangerously for a fleeting moment, “make sure the contract is ruthlessly in Kodama’s favour,” you flashed your legal director an unsettling smile, before allowing your voice to drop to a gentler register, “of course, all the while appearing unbiased.”

You had no doubt your husband would do the same.

“Will that be alright?” Ogata Genjo, director of communications nervously questioned.

Your eyes darted towards your right, appraising the disconcerted man before offering him a warm smile which didn’t bother concealing your unforgiving intentions, “of course it will be. I never mix business and pleasure.”

“Though given that your marriage to Mr. Kaiba was at its core a business transaction,” Uyeda reminded, “neither the marriage nor this partnership are in the realm of pleasure. You should tread carefully.”

“I’m quiet convinced my marriage to Seto has progressed far behind the confines of a typical business arrangement, I assure you.”

“Does that mean you have progressed to a point of intimacy with Mr. Kaiba?” he impudently pushed, eliciting a harsh glare from you.

“That is wildly inappropriate!” you barked, earning merely a tranquil expression from the old man.

He shook his head, “on the contrary, as I have said, the marriage primarily is a business transaction between our two corporations, and as such, the stability of your relationship is of the utmost importance. My question is not inappropriate, rather, one for which an honest answer is owed to the members of this board.”

You sighed displaying unrestrainedly your vexation. You ran your tongue along the teeth of your lower jaw and drew your lips into a thin line. Looking away at the door to your far right, your fingers fumbled with your bun for a few moments before beginning to speak.

“Have I slept with Mr. Kaiba,” you spoke with unconstrained ire, finally turning your head to face the man who had pitched the blatantly disrespectful inquiry into your private life, “is that what you’re asking?” You inhaled sharply, observing the vultures gathered around the table, eager for information, “Yes, I have.”

The boardroom simultaneously exploded into a violent bustle of hushed whispers and gasps. You allowed it for a few moments, observing the perpetrators with a steel glare, before bringing your palm harshly over the wooden surface of the table, effectively allowing silence to fall over the space.

“My private life is not a topic open for discussion or scrutiny,” you bellowed, “that’s quite enough. I’m not entirely sure what all of you thought Mr. Kaiba would expect of me when you married me off with such pathetic disregard for my personal opinion, and what sort of response you expected of me having asked such a personal question, but now you all know.”

“Having said that,” the board’s chief director continued, seemingly unaffected by your onslaught, “is it safe to assume that an heir will be produced sometime in the near future?”

You were livid by his brazenness.

“I’m afraid I can’t say,” you spoke dismissively, “meeting adjourned. Hold a vote amongst yourselves if you wish, it’ll hardly make a difference.”

  
...

  
“It’s me,” you greeted Seto as he answered the phone. “Friday, next Friday my board can meet yours,” you advised, your pace tittering on the verge of breaking into a run as you walked briskly to your office, your tablet cradled in the crook of your left arm, phone secured between your right shoulder and ear, smoothie cup clasped in your right hand, coming dangerously close to running late for your next schedule.

“I’ll relay that,” he responded brusquely.

You continued in spite of his obviously distracted manner of speaking, “I just spent my entire morning declaring the intimacy of our relationship to a bunch of old, greying hags,” you vented, earning an unexpected chuckle from the other end.

“Try explaining every board meeting why we don’t have children yet,” he countered humorously.

Unbeknownst to your husband, this revelation hit a nerve.

“I had no idea.”

He merely offered a hum in response, before informing you that he would be disconnecting the line as he was preoccupied.

There was something that would irritatingly occupy your thoughts for the rest of the day.

 


	18. Funfair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a monstrosity of almost 6500 words, for anyone wondering why it took me a while. That, and also because if I've learnt anything from the experience of writing this, it's that writing fluff is agonizingly difficult for me. It was my equivalent to sanding down my own brain. Anyway. Here. Enjoy, consider this compensation because I'm not doing this again for a while XD

 

Five in the evening and he arrived like clockwork on the hour, wearing a dark navy trench coat and a stern scowl.

 

You returned to the office to find him standing over your desk, facing away, placing your collection of paper weights under intense scrutiny.

 

Pastel sunlight poured in through the wall of glass before him, painting him a dark silhouette against your office burning a fading orange.

 

You crept silently behind him, utilizing the advantage your flat shoes afforded you, only for him to turn to face you inches away from your arms wrapping around him from behind.

 

“What are you doing?” he questioned flatly as he observed you recoil out of instinct.

 

Eyes falling towards the book in his hand, It was then that you comprehended that he was in fact reading a book - a novel for a script you were considering - he had picked up off your desk.

 

“For a ruthless businessman you’re not very sharp,” you remarked in retort, side stepping away from him.

 

He scoffed. “You’re not wearing that,” was his entirely unrelated and disinterested response to your previous comment.

 

“No, I’m going to change. I was in a meeting until five minutes ago, didn’t exactly have the time to change. Wait here.”

 

“I told you to be ready by five,” he hissed, his tone all but scraping your ears.

 

“No, you told me you would pick me up by five,” you corrected.

 

“That’s the same thing.”

 

“Maybe by your definition.”

 

“Stop!” he ordered before the words had barely left your mouth, snapping the book in his hand closed as if to punctuate his command.

 

‘Someone’s tetchy,’ you clicked your tongue mentally, appraising the lines gathering between his brows.

 

“Did something happen at work?” you asked, stepping forward to wrap your arms around him.

 

“Something always happens at work, I run a multi-billion dollar corporation,” he bit back, sarcasm lacing his tone, “hurry up and change. I don’t want my wife to be the last thing testing my patience today.”

 

You took a deep breath, the sharp inhaling of air audible across the silent office, “Alright.”

 

...

 

You emerged in a blush pink dress with hand embroidered pansies all over, which cascaded past your knees, sleeves reaching your elbows and a modestly plunging neckline. Your Valentino flats only stood to highlight the height difference between you and Seto, and he obviously took note, commenting on how he preferred you in heels.

 

“I was planning on wearing a scarf,” you told him slightly disappointed at your sudden realization, “and even without, I could blend into the crowd. You’re going to attract a lot of attention being as tall as you.”

 

“It’ll be dark,” he dismissed, “besides, I’ll have a security detail following us - ”

 

“You’re bringing security along?” you interrupted.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Seto,” you objected, “I wanted this to be personal.”

 

“And I want the parameters to be secure,” he noted blandly, taking your hand in his as he led you out of your office. “I’ll have them make themselves scarce.”

 

He slipped in to the driver’s seat of the red Ferrari, having held the door open for you.

 

You laced your fingers through his left hand, leaning forward to study his face at the absence of a reaction to your touch.

 

“So, how was your day?” you ventured trepidatiously. It felt odd asking, almost too mundane, too unremarkable a question against the unconventional backdrop that was the lives the both of you led. This felt more a question asked around a dinner table by a housewife from a husband working nine to five.

 

“Nauseating.”

 

“Nauseating?” you repeated, searching for the words that would lure him into elaborating, “what happened?”

 

“It would hardly make much sense to you if I told you.”

 

“Try me.”

 

“An imbecile corrupted a code needed for an upcoming game release and it will take weeks to re-write, setting us back months,” he explained through gritted teeth, “I could have programming pulling overtime every night and we still won’t make announced release dates.”

 

“Do you need a few extra programmers?”

 

“It’s fine,” he declined, “if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself. I will be handle it myself.”

 

“So that means you’ll be coming home less then,” you summarized what his words had meant, disappointment inevitably weighing your tone.

 

“Unfortunately.”

 

“I see.” You pulled his hand onto your lap, lacing both your hands around his. “Well if you do have to spend more nights in the office,” you added reassuringly after some thought, “I’ll just come stay with you like last time.”

 

He wouldn’t allow his eyes to leave the road, nor would he comment, but you witnessed the tension knotted in his shoulders dissipate to some degree, and he relaxed, leaning back against his seat.

 

“Yours?” he questioned abruptly, after allowing a few moments to lapse in silence.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“Your day,” he clarified, “how was it?” It wasn’t any less unfamiliar hearing those words the second time, or hearing him saying it.

 

“Before or after my board members asked me about my relations in the bedroom with you?” you responded humorously.

 

He glanced over at you, perplexity knotted into his features as your humour was obviously lost to him.

 

“I got an offer to judge an idol survival show,” you told him, earning another blank stare, obviously unable to draw any reference to your comment. “You have… no idea what I’m talking about do you?”

 

“Should I?” he deadpanned, and you wondered why you had bothered mentioning it in the first place.

 

“I suppose not,” you mused, “but they’re so popular, how do you not?” You watch his expression remain stoic and comically blank. “Produce 101? The Unit?”

 

“Are these supposed to mean anything?” he questioned dryly, “I have a corporation to run, I hardly have the time to waste watching vapid, idol nonsense.”

 

“Vapid, idol nonsense?” you repeated, appalled, “that’s my career you’re insulting. How did you even come to be interested in me?”

 

“You’re a businesswoman, not an idol. You profit from the industry, it’s vastly different.”

 

“Whatever Seto, where are we going for dinner?” you asked, crossing your arms and slumping back in your seat.

“Are you sulking?” he smothered a chuckle, glancing your way.

 

“Of course not.”

 

He named a restaurant that was unmistakably French, and undoubtedly, unnecessarily pretentious.

 

You turned up your lip, “You know how I feel about places like that.”

 

“My secretary made the reservations.”

 

“Which one?”

 

“The one we interviewed,” he explained.

 

“Your EA? She already started?” He released a deep hum. “Well next time tell her how much I hate these places. We are going to meet so many people we wish we didn’t have to see outside a boardroom.”

 

“Quite possibly.”

 

…

 

Seto pulled up before a grand, stone building you vaguely recognized - possibly from a past business meeting – with white marble arches stretching all around the building, each illuminated by a suspended lantern, glistening a white gold.

 

He exited the car, tossing his keys to the young valet rather irascibly, his impatience apparent in the briskness of his stride. Opening your door he slipped a hand between your head and the roof of the car, shielding you as you stepped out; an action you always thought was rather inconsistent with the man’s character, despite how many times he did it.

 

His hand over the small of your back, he guided you past the large mahogany doors, and through the polished checkered marble lobby, decorated with white, gold accented vases towering taller than you, holding white and cream roses.

 

Your eyes wandered absently across the ivory balcony wrapping around the lobby above you, as Seto informed the receptionist behind the mahogany pedestal of your reservations.

 

You were guided into the main dining room, decorated as expected in seventeenth century French style, in motifs of white and gold. Renaissance murals stretched across the ceilings and walls, bordered by ostentatious gold carvings. Opulent chandeliers hung from the ceiling, bathing the room in a dim, white glow. The host seated you by a mirror reaching the ceiling, styled to have the appearance of a large French window, allowing you to observe the grand hall despite being seated facing away from it.

 

“When I asked you to take me to dinner, this definitely was not what I had in mind,” you told your husband, peering over the menu.

 

“I can imagine,” he countered with disdain, eyes flickering over the pages before him.

 

“That being said,” you continued, ignoring his scorn, “thank you, for taking the time to do this just because I asked.”

 

Your comment seemed to catch him off guard, as his eyes darted up to meet yours, a rather quizzical look to them.

 

“You’re acting unlike yourself,” he remarked, having observed you silently for a few seconds.

 

“Am I?” you smiled coyly, reaching for his hand across the table.

 

“You could stand to be like this more often,” was his response.

 

“And I could stand having my husband spend more time with me like this every now and then,” you countered, lightly squeezing his hand.

 

“After this past week,” he spoke, stroking your hand with his thumb, eyes narrowed in thought, “I think you’ve lost the right to say that for a while.”

 

“I suppose,” you tittered, drawing his hand across the table towards you, bringing it fondly against your lips, your eyes closing for a long moment as you did. You observed as your eyes opened, his lips curve ever so slightly into what you hoped was a smile, and you sincerely hoped that you make him happy.

 

His hand still pressed against your lips, he parted his lips to speak, when a shadow fell over your shoulder, and his expression immediately froze over, harshly retrieving his hand from yours.

 

You looked over your shoulder to find an older, stout man in a moss green suit standing over your table, a considerably younger woman with strawberry blonde hair draped on his arm. Apparently sickly green was the uniform shade for sleazy businessmen this season.

 

You looked away, suppressing the urge to roll your eyes, catching your reflection in the floor length mirror as you did to find yourself appearing thoroughly repulsed by his presence.

 

“Mr. Kaiba,” he drawled abrasively, “so unusual to find you frequenting a place like this outside business – am I correct in supposing that this is indeed pleasure?”

 

“Sakakibara,” your husband greeted tersely, allowing the menu in his hands to meet the table with a sharp clap, “spare me the pleasantries. I’m sure your _date_ over here is on an hourly rate so cut to the chase and tell me what you want from me.”

 

You winced despite not being on the receiving end and so did the intruding gentleman.

“I haven’t heard anything back from Kaiba Corp. regarding the proposal our company pitched,” he spoke frankly, though you could discernibly hear his voice waiver.

 

“That’s because it wasn’t very good,” Seto declared callously, “next time you have anything of value to contribute, we can negotiate.”

 

At this point, you had found yourself far removed from the conversation, occupied again with reading the menu.

 

“I think your girlfriend here would disagree,” the man pressed boldly, calling your attention back to the conversation, astounded by his audacity.

 

“Fiancée,” Seto corrected, and you begged for an explanation as your eyes met. Instead he continued, “Your game was an insult to competent game developers Sakakibara,” he spat, “and showing my fiancée something of such pathetic caliber is an insult to her. If that is all, have a good night.”

 

The man scurried off quite quickly at the comment, offering you a hurried bow.

 

“Care to explain?” you raised an eyebrow, and he shook his head, seemingly reminiscing the debacle.

 

“I will, after we order.”

 

A young man seeming to appear no older than you walked up to your table shortly following, introducing himself to be your server for the evening. He recommended a few wines, both red and white off the menu; none your husband would allow you to order, and none he would order for himself as he had to drive.

 

Once your orders were placed, you eagerly urged Seto to tell you what had inspired such animosity towards the earlier businessman, and he finally obliged.

 

“He runs a game development company,” he explained, “and requested a partnership to help develop his game he claimed was the next big thing. It was a mess. I rather not go into the details.”

 

“I’m sure Schroeder Corp. would develop it,” you joked, earning a snicker from your husband, “whatever it was.”

 

“It’s below even the likes of Siegfried.”

 

“You know such interesting characters,” you remarked.

 

“You don’t know the half of it,” he returned rather puzzlingly, considering what you would have thought of the group he had gone to school with.

 

…

 

Dinner progressed in a familiar manner; it was comfortable and predictable, the way re-watching your favourite movie was. You were content simply by his presence, even through his monologues of technological jargon you couldn’t understand. You noticed he spoke more – relatively – around people he was at ease around, which really was the case with most people you supposed, but with Seto especially, you observed, around you and his brother, a marked difference.

 

As the waiter returned following the entrée, you expected him to ask for the bill and instead finding yourself thoroughly surprised when he instead requested the dessert menu. 

 

“To make up for last time,” he simply remarked, having observed your unrestrained shock.

 

“Oh no, it’s fine,” you attempted to protest, addressing the waiter, only for your husband to hold the waiter’s gaze with an unsettling – almost threatening glare – causing the young man to bow and quickly make himself scarce after handing the requested menu. “I’m trying to save my calories for the fair,” you informed him, flipping through the ivory pages.

 

“For the fair?”

 

“If you knew how many calories were in cotton candy,” you simply retorted.

 

“You’re impossible,” he growled, “dessert never killed anyone.”

 

“No, but it has the potential to end careers,” you joked, settling on a white chocolate panna cotta.

 

“Do you not want dessert?” he inquired roughly, having obviously, once again misunderstood your humour.

 

“If I had a dime for each time you didn’t understand one of my jokes,” you began to say, and his expression lightened.

 

“You’d be even richer,” he completed wryly, expression reading unamused.

 

 

 

“I didn’t take you for a dessert type of guy,” you started to say, watching the dark, cylindrical pastry being placed before him. The pungent alcohol drizzle from the canelé floated over to you, interrupting your train of thought, “- oh my god I can smell the rum from here,” you scrunched your nose.

 

“That’s the point,” he noted blandly, “and to answer your earlier question, I’m not.”

 

“You’re not what?” you questioned without investing much thought, distracted by how prettily the rose petals were scattered over your own dessert.

 

“I rarely enjoy dessert.”

 

You nodded in understanding; his explanation not having offered much in the way of revisions to what you had previously assumed of his sweet tooth, or lack thereof.

 

He carved his dessert with his spoon, and you followed suit. Having tasted your panna cotta, you held out a spoonful across the table, earning an unambiguous glare at the motion.

 

“What are you doing?” he questioned sternly, eyes darting briefly around the room.

 

“You feed me all the time.”

 

“It was one time, you were sick,” he hissed, “and people are watching.”

 

You looked over your shoulder, following his eyes over the numerous young couples seated across the hall.

 

“So what? Everyone else is doing it too.”

 

“I’m not everyone else,” he whispered sharply, as you continued to hold out the spoon.

 

“You’re the one making a scene, try it,” you pestered, adding his name so sweetly at the end that even you had to bite back the laughter which almost left your lips at how it had sounded.

 

“I’ve told you not to do that,” he scolded, finally surrendering to your request. A smile curved across your lips as he complied. You watched him cringe as the intense sweetness greeted his palate, and he immediately drowned it out with water.

 

You bit your lip, attempting to suppress a laugh, “Are you struggling without alcohol?” you asked, observing how he seemed comically displeased as he was forced to settle for water to cleanse his palate. His scowl deepened, and you couldn’t help but laugh, “at least your dessert makes up for it, sort of.”

 

 

He wouldn’t offer you his dessert, using your reflux as rationalization.

 

“You’d be annoyingly overprotective as a father,” you commented, though strangely charmed by his overreaction. “I sympathize with Mokuba.”

 

“You think if I let my brother do whatever he wanted growing up, he would be in any position to be Kaiba Corp.’s vice president?”

 

“Perhaps not, but he would have had a fun childhood.”

 

“He had plenty of that,” he asserted roughly, “you’re going to be too lenient on our children.”

 

“Perhaps,” you repeated elusively, earning an audible growl.

 

At the conclusion of dinner, Seto sent his card back with the server who had appeared thoroughly unnerved through the entire night and upon his return, you offered him an apologetic smile, careful not to be seen my your husband. Not that Seto had been a terrible patron, or even a difficult one, just that his mere presence had the effect of petrifying people to the core.

 

As you secured the seatbelt around yourself back in the car, you could hardly contain your excitement.

 

“You know I’ve never been to one of these before,” you told your husband, mirth bubbling in your tone, “thank you!”

 

He looked over you for a long moment, and it was fairly obvious that even he was having a difficult time making a snide remark against your unrestrained delight.

 

“I would never have assumed,” he simply said, appearing to fight the rare smile tugging at his lips.

 

…

 

“You remind me of Mokuba when he was younger at times like this,” he remarked as turned into the fairgrounds, parking the car.

 

“So you’ve told me,” you nodded, wrapping a light grey scarf around your neck, the thick fabric piling in a way so it was concealing the lower half of your face.

 

He informed his security waiting on standby of your location before walking around the car to open your door.

 

The night air had grown colder from when you had left the restaurant. You could feel the skin of your exposed forearms prickle, and then the cold slowly rush under the fabric of your sleeves, breaking a shudder through you.

 

Seto draped his trench coat over your shoulders before you could even register that you were cold. His hand was somehow warmer than yours as he laced it through your fingers before walking towards the bright lights in the distance without a word.

Weaving through the parked cars, the cacophony of sounds grew distinct, seeping out from the distance, the brilliant oranges, whites and fuchsias defying the darkness spill over the arched tents, cutting into the night. From the bright lights to the bustle of the crowd and the familiar melodies of the carousel, it was truly an assault on the senses.

 

Trailing behind your husband, you notice yourselves walking now amongst a stream of fair-goers, and Seto’s grip around yours tightened. He pulls you to walk beside him, slipping an arm protectively around your shoulders, a tight grimace weighing his features. He doesn’t like crowds, you were reminded and you almost felt a little apologetic.

 

“Where do you want to go?” he asks as you walk through the main entrance, faced with bright hued tents of cobalt and crimson and saffron glowing gold, lining either side of the fairly wide dirt road you found yourselves walking on, packed on all fronts by young couples and young families. It was so chaotic that no one could spare the time to look at anyone else, you and Seto included.

 

In the distance skyline you could see the towering rides, the distant screams of exhilaration carrying in the soft wind.

 

“I don’t know,” you trailed off, marveled into distraction by the traditional vendors under dipping tents that were their stalls selling daintily crafted wagashi and enticing street food; steam pouring out of their pots and pans, bringing with it tantalizing wafts of irresistible aromas. Besides these traditional vendors were foreign ones, selling powdered doughnuts and funnel cakes; a juxtaposition you found absolutely fascinating. “Just...everywhere.”

 

“Are you really that amused?” Seto inquired, seeming truly amused and to some degree baffled.

 

You almost asked him if he was not.

 

“The Tokyo fairs are a lot more traditional apparently,” you remarked, having observed many of the young women in yukatas, as well as the traditional Japanese lanterns hung in spite of the blinding strode lights, catching the light breeze above you on string stretching as far as your vision would allow.

 

Seto grunted in response, navigating through the throngs of fair-goers.

 

“I’ll ask you again,” he spoke over the noise, “is there anything particular you want to go? Because if not, I’m getting the both of us out of this mess and going home.”

 

“Lighten up, will you? I can hardly see anything through this sea of people.”

 

“Are you suggesting I carry you?”

 

You looked around, curious if the idea he had made sound so ridiculous was one of his own devising or if he had gotten the inspiration for it elsewhere.

 

“Other guys are doing it,” you observed teasingly, “does it make you want to also?”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he rejected stonily.

 

“There!” You suddenly exclaimed, pointing at a street food stall; intriguing concoctions of octopus, fish and rice cakes were wrapped around sticks, smoke and steam spilling from the baskets holding them, a single older woman stood in the stall, surrounded by it all.

 

“We just had dinner,” Seto reminded.

 

“You had dinner,” you corrected, pulling him towards it by the arm, “I didn’t finish mine.”

 

You heard him release something that was halfway between a sigh and a growl, though what had inspired this irritation you couldn’t begin to guess, or care for.

 

He complied none the less, following you even if grudgingly, appearing opposed to the whole idea of being present. His one hand still in yours, he walked to stand beside you, appraising the diverse offering with a critical eye, surely fighting the urge to condemn the deep fried and steamed fare in favour of something more hygienic.

 

You made your selection, and watched the stout, older woman with streaks of greying hair begin by placing the takoyaki neatly in two rows of three, a pleasant smile on her face as Seto retrieved his wallet.

 

“Newlyweds are always my favourite thing about coming to these fairs,” she beamed, seemingly not having recognized you. Seto froze mid motion, glancing down at you. “You are newlyweds aren’t you?” she questioned at your stupefied reaction, motioning her eyes towards the ring you hadn’t noticed on your husband’s left hand.

 

“Yes,” you quickly filled the awkward air, smiling with genuine elation, “we just don’t get recognized often that way.”

 

“I wonder why,” she mused, accepting the sum of bills Seto held out to her, “I could tell at first glance. Still in the honeymoon phase are we?”

 

“We actually haven’t gone on a honeymoon yet,” you told her, unsure why you had compelled to tell her that.

 

“Ah yes,” she hummed, “the economy certainly is tough these days. Most young people don’t even get married because it’s so expensive. You should still take your bride somewhere nice young man, you don’t look too bad off.”

 

You stifled a giggle with the back of your hand, stealing a glance up at your husband. It wasn’t everyday that someone spoke of the trials of the economy with Seto Kaiba, or commented on the fact that he didn’t look too financially ‘bad off.’

 

“Pardon me,” you spoke up, having regained control of your laughter, “after you’re done, could you take a photo of the two of us?”

 

You had been married almost six months without a single picture besides the ones the paparazzi took and desperately wanted one.

 

Seto looked at you questioningly, seemingly uncomfortable, but you wouldn’t be discouraged.

 

The woman handed you a folded cardboard container holding the balls of steaming octopus and your husband the rice cakes you had ordered. He accepted them grudgingly as you passed your phone to the woman, instructing her on how to operate the camera.

 

She wiped down her hands on her apron, excitement bubbling as she obliged, seeming even more animated than she had been prior to your request.

 

She left her stall, walking around the two of you.

 

“There’s no point taking a photo with a blurry crowd,” she explained, “the stall will serve as a better memory.”

 

Lowering your scarf you leaned into Seto, arm sliding around his as the blinding light of your camera’s flash erupted, bathing you in a silver glow.

 

“I hope one of these work out,” she said as she handed your phone back to you. “Years from now if you come back with your children, be sure to bring them here. I’m here every year.”

 

You watched her for a moment, too dazed to speak, rewinding her words in your head, then playing them over again, before thanking her with a polite bow of the head, taking your leave.

 

Having reserved himself to silence through the entire encounter, Seto already appeared beyond fed-up with the whole experience, so you wondered if you had imagined the displaced hint of contentment in his features.

 

The stream of people moving like a swift current between the vendor stalls had merged together to form what you saw as a living organism. There was a system to navigating through it you observed, watching your husband skillfully wending through the crowd with you under his arm, though most of it involved being incredibly tall.

 

As you walked further into the grounds, the crowd thinned, dispersing in a number of directions.

 

You tugged on his sleeve as you passed a traditional confectionary stall.

 

He made a sour remark of how you had hardly left the last stand, motioning to the untouched box of rice cakes still in his hands, though he followed you regardless, watching you attentively as you made your order. You watched the old chef neatly arrange the assortment of jelly and sweet rice cakes in pinks, greens and reds into the carefully sectioned, clear plastic box, completely unaware of just how endearing your husband found your unrestrained excitement. Seto Kaiba would never admit it, though you he was undeniably captivated by you. He was so uncontrollably fond of the woman before him that he found himself subjecting himself to the most ridiculous of things. It was frightening to some extent. This was after all the man who owned Kaiba Land, the largest theme park in the world, and yet here he was, falling after his wife at a commoner’s fun fair. Who would have thought? Certainly, theme parks and carnivals weren’t the same thing but by his definition they were all the same concept. So what on earth was he doing here, and more importantly, why couldn’t he find it in himself to feel irritated, he questioned, handing what was owed for the troubling amount of sweets you had requested the vendor wrap up.

 

He observed the contagious elation stretching your lips into a smile as you walked beside him, momentarily too absorbed in his musings to notice you holding the spicy rice cake impaled at the end of a toothpick before his lips; yours contorting in some familiar pattern as you posed him a question he had not paid attention to.

 

“Are you even listening to me?” your irritated voice demanded his attention back to reality, away from his distracted thoughts. “I asked,” you stressed your words, pouting, “whether you don’t like rice cakes?”

 

He hesitantly parted his lips, allowing you to thrust the piece of rice cake into his mouth. It was edible, contrary to what he had assumed; in fact, it was unexpectedly palatable.

 

“The takoyaki is good too,” you added, lifting one towards his lips again, satisfied by his previous reaction.

 

He peered down at you, eyes drawn towards the red smeared lips glistening under the lantern light. He lowered your hand, the other securing your chin between his thumb and forefinger as he leaned down, bringing his lips over yours. He wrapped an arm around your back as you stumbled backwards out of surprise, overwhelmed by the sheer force of his kiss. He sucked on your bottom lip, running his tongue over it, savouring how the spiciness tingled across his tongue.

 

It was intoxicating being held by him that way, being kissed that way. It was tantalizing and dizzying and above all, it was unbelievably liberating not being photographed or watched or criticized for being unapologetically yourself.

 

He parted from you, having left you breathless.

 

It was the storybook cliché, the two of you stood at a crossroad, blurs of people in crowds bustling past you, leaving nothing but the echo of their laughter and a trace as the ones in long exposure photographs in their wakes as the two of you stood perfectly still.

 

“It was good,” he confessed, “coming here.”

 

You nodded smiling, reaching for his hand, “I’m glad you think so. I know you’d rather be working.”

 

Honestly, he wasn’t so sure.

 

 

Turning to the left fork of the crossroad, you watched the lights of the game booths light up to the sky, vendors yelling over the familiar tunes of the games and the clamour of the crowd to attract customers.

 

“Win me something,” you asked eagerly, tugging on his arm.

 

“I can buy you something better than anything any of these third rate places have to offer,” he scoffed.

 

“It’s the thought Seto,” you explained with exasperation, “I always wanted my boyfriend to win me something at a place like this, and well you came along and married me before I could so, you’re the closest thing I have to one of those.”

 

“One of those?” he repeated with a snide edge to his voice, ridiculing how you had chosen to denominate ‘boyfriend.’ “Rather archaic though don’t you think?”

 

“What?”

 

“Asking your husband to win you something.”

 

“I like to see it as romantic, besides, you’re like the all time champion of games - or whatever they call you,” you bit your lower lip, stifling a snicker at the title, hoping in hindsight that the title doesn’t stir up any old resentment, “I want this so called great champion to win me something.”

 

“You’re mocking me,” he flatly noted, obviously unimpressed.

 

“Okay, I was,” you admitted, seeing no point in pointlessly denying what was so plainly implied, “but please,” you implored, pressing yourself against his arm, “you can do whatever you want with me when we are alone.”

 

A dark, unsettling smirk played on his lips, “Consider it a deal, though I was going to do it anyway,” he husked, pulling you by the hand towards the kiosks. “Which one?”

 

_The bastard._

 

Your eyes wandered over the blindingly illuminated stalls, eyes settling over a plush, white, life-size teddy bear.

 

“That one.”

 

“You’re such a child...and an idealist,” he muttered, marching towards basketball pitching game.

 

There was a game to make good use of his uselessly tall form and athleticism, you internally sniggered.

 

You hadn’t paid attention to the rules, or how the game was won, having been hopelessly distracted by how ridiculously attractively Seto’s hair had moved each time he threw the ball. You were forced back to reality only when the absurdly large bear was thrust into your arms by your husband.

 

Having warmed up to the idea, he played a handful more games, including one shooting game with you. You had entered the game with a fair amount of optimism, having decent confidence in your marksmanship, only to discover that as skilled as you had prided yourself to be with a gun and a target, your husband was undoubtedly better. You wondered why you had ever fathomed otherwise.

 

He lingered for a brief moment before a duel monsters booth, though upon inquiring if he wanted to play, he had brutally condemned the place, declaring how it didn’t pose nearly enough of a challenge to his great deck and intellect, even with one of his blue eyes still in your possession.

 

A few more steps, and you could slowly but unmistakably feel your arm beginning to tear under the weight of the comically large, plush bear, and you urged Seto to carry it.

 

“I can barely keep it off the ground,” you attempted to reason, “I’m going to get the white fur dirty.”

 

“You should have thought of that before you annoyed me to win it for you,” he drawled in rejection.

 

“Seto please,” you entreated, motioning towards the bag of confectionaries slung from your arm. “I’ll hold the rice cakes and the takoyaki.”

 

He sighed with evident irritation, surrendering to your pleas, “You’re insufferable.”

 

Throughout the course of the night, you had received some knowing glances, some requests for an autograph, and even a few requests for a photo from the vendors, though over all, it had been peaceful; spending your night amongst a sea of people who could care less about who you were or your husband’s stature in society, too engrossed in the person next to them or the numerous, brightly coloured tents demanding their attention. In the middle of what your husband considered pandemonium, surely, you could breathe.

 

Convincing Seto to ride the carousel with you had been a losing battle from the beginning, and considering how obliging and accommodating he had been through the course of the night, you couldn’t possibly find it in yourself to pester him anymore, so instead you settled on watching the merry-go-round studded with lights burning gold and white from a distance. It’s radiating glow lighting up your face even from where you stood. You weren’t a huge proponent of rollercoasters, and with what Kaiba Land had to offer, Seto wasn’t too keen on stepping on any of the thrill seeking rides a local carnival had to offer either.

 

“The Ferris wheel,” you suddenly remembered, reaching for his hand enthusiastically, “you can’t possibly have any objections to that.”

 

There were only a few couples before you in line. You were surprised that he had agreed with such little resistance.

 

“This is ridiculous,” you heard him curse under his breath, glaring at the life-size bear under his arm.

 

Inching closer to him, you snaked your arms around his free one, huddling against his side.

 

“Anything you want,” you reminded him as if in compensation, and he groaned in irritation, nearly earning the attention of the couple in front of you.

 

You almost remarked, before your better judgement convinced you against it, how if it was any consolation, he wasn’t the only gentleman in line holding a ridiculously sized plush animal.

 

Stepping into the tea cup like, open car which swung down for your turn, the bear was promptly discarded against a far seat.

 

Sitting beside him, you nestled yourself against his side, the adrenaline laced into your veins drawing a squeal when he unexpectedly reciprocated the gesture, draping an arm over your shoulder. Of course by which point, the car had already lifted away from the watchful eyes of the crowds on the ground.

 

The wheel spun twice rapidly, the night air rushing in and caressing your cheeks already reddened from the cold. Squeals and laughter erupted from all the other cars, and you closed your fingers around Seto’s shirt, burying your face into his chest, exploiting the moment to draw closer to him.

 

Whether he understood your motives or not you couldn’t be sure, but his arm around you tightened in reaction.

 

“Are you not cold?” you mumbled, as your car completed the rapid rotations near the ground, before beginning a slower ascent, so that the riders on the other half of the wheel may leave.

 

“I’m fine,” he returned stoically.

 

You removed your face from his chest, looking over the blur of neon lights and tents of vivid blues, reds and yellows sprawled over the fairgrounds, the throngs of people melded together to appear as if they were dark, moving ribbons under the strings of traditional lanterns, stretching from the center to every distant corner of the carnival. One could never quite give meaning, honestly, to the phrase of having their breath taken away, until they had witnessed something as spectacular as this.

 

“Is this all it takes to make you happy?” your husband inquired, observing the awe that has bloomed across your features. There was an odd tinge of amusement underlining his tone mainly conveying restrained derision.

 

“Is this all? This is, everything, how could you - Is this not beautiful to you? I mean, thank you!”

 

He couldn’t bring himself to confess to you that the sight of you was much more arresting than anything that stood below on the ground in that moment. So instead he compromised, declaring “That expression on your face is reward enough,” in a tone so deep it elicited a shiver more intense from you than the cold wind had succeeded in drawing.

 

He laughed throatily at your reaction, placing two fingers under your chin and tilting your face up to meet his. There was unconcealed ardor and fervor in his kiss as his lips closed over yours.

 

You only pulled away startled by the explosions erupting in the sky all around you.

 

“They’re just fireworks,” Seto drawled, noticing your deer in headlights reaction.

 

Of course he was only narrating what you had already perceived in that moment; shades of crimson, ruby, sapphire, mint and saffron burning brilliantly, illuminating the night sky.

 

Far from impressed, Seto tore your eyes back towards him, unable to help himself as he was overcome with the intense urge to feel your skin against his. He crushed his lips against yours, drawing you deeper into his embrace.

 

It was as if he was colour blind to all the colours lighting up the world around you, and you were the most dazzling shade of white.


	19. Corporate Affairs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely to hear the fluff has been enjoyed so far :)

As one lives, there are certain things you start to call home; the smell of his shirts, the smell of coffee in the morning, the scent of him, even now.

The cotton candy coating your fingers melted against his warm skin, sticking onto his hand as his long fingers curled around yours. You could feel his gaze on you, the quiet roar of the engine, waves of gold sweeping past your knees, pouring in through the window, and you could vaguely remember wondering if you were allowed to feel this content.

There was an unintelligible exchange of words, it soothed you in your state between consciousness and sleep. You heard the phone conversation draw to a close, and you stirred lightly, feeling your legs begin to numb from having sat in the same attitude for an extended period of time.

“Are we there yet?” you mumbled, bleary eyes opening to gaze up at him.

“I can’t build a runway in the middle of Tokyo,” he declared flatly. “Do you plan to sleep the whole way there?”

You received that as a no.

“Why? Would you like someone to offer you companionship?” you inquired with light sarcasm.

“Would be nice.”

You had never fathomed Seto be the sort of man who would openly admit his desire for any form of companionship, if he ever did crave that type of interaction.

You tightened your grip on his hand, and clicking his tongue, he berated you for how sticky your fingers were. You had retorted simply with that it was all spilled milk now, seeing as how the back of his hand was already smeared with cotton candy. The sensation irritated immensely the meticulous CEO, though he would refrain from subjecting you to his usual wrath.

The black asphalt stretched beyond the reach of the street lights, disappearing into the mist which rolled like wispy tulle on the highway leading away from the city. The buildings grew sparse, transforming into long stretches of nothingness punctuated by trees, and at the end of an hour, you could see his hangar; a curved steel grey dome, looming in the distance.

Ascending the steps leading up to the cabin of your husband’s jet, you were greeted by Isono, and then unexpectedly, though perhaps the surprise was a result of poor foresight, by his newly appointed executive assistant, dressed much too primly for an excruciatingly long flight, and his recently promoted secretary, dressed reasonably enough in a relaxed cobalt dress and ballerina flats.

That cabin air felt immediately taut with a nauseating tension, much like the ends of your hair, standing like brittle needles all over, called to attention by your churning stomach in your throat; an uneasiness you disregarded as a consequence of overindulging in candy.

Seto’s EA stepped forward, Yukari you believed her name was - she hadn’t seen the need to introduce herself this evening, believing herself too self-important despite you introducing yourself foolishly a second time - alerting you to the flight schedule, along with the emergency procedures of the aircraft and where your quarters were located for the duration of the flight.

It was the first time you had been made to feel genuinely disconcerted by an overcompensating friendliness, only, you couldn’t quite place what her extreme forwardness was concealing behind that pearly smile. You couldn’t possibly be jealous, you had no reason to be.

Retiring to your room on the upper level alone, almost immediately following, bent over with your arms anchored against the sink, you thought back while relieving yourself of the acid ravaging your insides. She was on second thought, a calculated formula of overtly cordial, which was on occasion craftily reversed to be intentionally impolite and short, before reverting back almost immediately. There was an unmissable aura of clever and conniving you had somehow failed to grasp on your first meeting with her.

You couldn’t afford the luxury of sparing too much thought on one of your husband’s employees however, thoughts falling away to consider something more pressing; what it had meant when a particular disturbance had arrived six days earlier than you had been expecting, only to wither away by the day’s end. The occurrence was eerily familiar, and you waited anxiously in bed for your husband, debating where it was sensible to needlessly alarm him with the unlikely possibility of pregnancy.

He entered the room a few hours into the flight, entirely dishevelled, bleary eyes weighed with dark circles, carelessly discarding his laptop over the wine cart.

“You look awful,” he noted, heading towards the bathroom.

“I threw up,” you admitted, slipping under the sheets, intent on sleeping now that you assumed he would be joining you soon.

“This is why I told you not to eat all that sugar. What did you think was going to happen?” he retorted dismissively.

You wouldn’t respond, and as he eventually slid in beside you, pulling you roughly across the bed into his bare chest, you were too far drowned in sleep to raise any topic of conversation.

...

It was nearly midnight when you arrived in New York, the disorienting time difference making it so that you were well-rested at a time you should be fast asleep. Leaving the airport, a limo was waiting to escort you and your husband to his Upper Eastside penthouse overlooking Central Park in the distance. A separate car was arranged to drive his assistant and secretary. They would be staying in a lower level of the building owned by the Kaiba family, you were told, floor fifty four if you recalled correctly.

The penthouse was an ostentatious construction of all the glitz and extravagance one might except of a residence owned by the Kaiba family; gold and iridescent glass climbing an impressive seventy two floors to tower above the surrounding skyscrapers, offering a truly magnificent view of the city below, and more notably, of the night sky, leaving one feeling as if they were dancing with the silver stars outside. The glass wrapping around the entire penthouse only helped with the illusion of walking amongst the clouds.

Standing with your hand splayed over the glass in the enormous living room, the night sky inches from your fingertips, there was an invisible disquietness silently contrasting the serene calm which laid beyond the window.

You thought to drown your agitation in scalding hot water, perhaps you reasoned, it would calm your nerves.

Stepping out of the bathroom, there were warm hands on your skin, rough lips at your throat. You staggered back, your towel loosening as the bed broke your willing fall.

Your husband hovered above you, lips sucking in the flushed skin of your neck , arms caging you on either side. He smelt of his shower gel, subtle notes of chypre embracing you.

Your hands splayed against his firm pecs over his white linen shirt before your fingers fisted around the fabric as his tongue grazed over a particularly sensitive spot; your pulse against the tip of his tongue. You drew in air sharply through your lips.

His one hand groped your breast over the plush towel, and you whimpered. He was impatient, you could tell. It was evident in how roughly he spread your legs apart before him. It was obvious before he confessed he had no patience for conversation, obvious before he made love to you with feverish haste.

...

Laying in bed with your back cradled against his broad, clothed chest, the affairs of the night having only stripped you bare; his hand still softly kneading your breasts, despite the lightness of his touch, was growing unbearable. You could feel the cool of his wedding band dissipating against your blushing skin, his hot breath burning your neck, there was a familiar warmth streaming into the sheets, and smearing against your inner thighs. His hand continued to fondle you. You couldn’t take it anymore.

You wanted to write off the sensitivity to the frenzy of energy your body had just expended, but dismissing it as such any longer would only be foolish denial, and yet mentioning it while he was on top of you during the act just didn’t seem appropriate.

“Stop it,” you snapped, urging him to release his grip. You drew in a deep breath, voice inadvertently falling to a strained whisper, “What would you say if I told you I might be pregnant?”

“Are you?” he sternly inquired.

“I don’t know,” you confessed, “but you’re hurting me.”

He clapped the lights on.

“Show me your breasts,” he suddenly declared, turning you to face him, brows furrowing as he appraised you. “They’re swollen, I should have noticed earlier. Is this your reasoning or have you actually taken a test?”

“No, I haven’t, but the nausea and - “

“Take the test,” he asserted.

“I have one in my bag, but only after you tell me how you feel about it. I don’t think I could survive losing another one Seto.”

“You’re creating an issue we aren’t even positive exists.”

“Issue?” your pitch inflected, “becoming the father of my children is an issue to you?”

He sighed rather exasperatedly, “Don’t put words in my mouth. That irrationality I will write off as hormones if you give me a positive test.” He practically barked the last words of his sentence.

His lack of affection towards the subject was concerning.

Pulling yourself away from him, you locked yourself in the bathroom, mechanically following the steps as you had once before. Two lines. Frantically, clawing at another box, you peeled the top tab off, tearing it in your frenzy. With trembling hands, you shook the upturned box, pouring the contents over the marble of the sink already littered with instruction manuals from the box before. Another handful of minutes passed...two lines. Another, and the result appeared without change.

You clutched at the hem of the pink satin robe wrapped around your body, knuckles running white. What did you think was going to happen sleeping with him, over and over again without a contraceptive, you asked yourself.

You felt strangely complete, and yet there was a heavy yearning, a fear manifesting in the form of emptiness lingering about you; it was longing, a desperate want to feel accepted. A terrible ache for him to take responsibility for what he had done, instead of callously declaring that you weren’t ready for motherhood, too young, too frail, too immature and irresponsible to care for a child the way he could.

The rapping of fists against the heavy door had melded into a blur of background noise.

Eventually you opened the door, finding your husband sitting against the edge of the bed. You held out the three tests which read positive to him with a quivering hand.

“You’re...going to be a father,” you spoke with quavering lips, forcing a smile, hoping earnestly that appealing to his paternal instinct would push him to look upon the news favourably.

He wrapped his palm around your fisted hand, sliding the testers from your grip, carefully appraising one.

“They said we would never conceive again, the gynaecologist would never give me a straight answer, whether I could give you children, but look Seto...” you rambled to fill his silence.

A line drew together his brows. “You’re still so young,” he rasped, contemplative eyes never leaving the white stick.

“Are you rejecting me...?” your voice was a husky whisper, your tone a harbinger of tears.

He pulled you forward by your wrist, leading you to stand between his knees over the bedside.

“Let’s talk about this in the morning,” he simply said, massaging the inner corners of his eyes with his other hand.

“No, let’s talk about this now,” you stubbornly insisted.

“For fuck’s sake,” he swore your name, “it’s four a.m in the morning. If you’re pregnant you need to sleep. I expect you to take better care of yourself time around.”

“It would only matter if you let me keep this baby.”

“Like you once told me, it’s your body,” he spoke in a chillingly deep register, “If you think you’re ready to have a child, I will do everything in my power to protect you and the child. What about your drama and filming schedule?”

“Filming ends in two and a half months, it’s a fairly short drama, I won’t show for a while after it ends. We can get married by the end of summer, instead of waiting for next spring,” you spoke hopefully, hastily rationalizing your decision before he could interrupt.

“Very well,” he conceded, standing to embrace you. You could feel a gentle pressure on the top of your crown as he pressed his lips against your hair, “If that is what you want.”

“It is.”

“Come to bed.”

 

“I want it to have your eyes,” you murmured to him as you drifted to sleep, his arm secured with an unusual tenseness around your small form.

His hoarse chuckle rumbled against your chest, lulling you to sleep.

...

Sunlight burnt like golden glitter through the wall of windows facing the East, raining over the white marble floors rippled with grey, highly polished, setting the chic Manhattan style dining room ablaze in a frenzy of dancing morning light. It was early seven, but summer had boldly announced its arrival. The bed had been empty, only notes of distinct chypre present in his absence; his shirt from the night before draped over the edge of the white comforter soaking in sunlight.

Walking into the dining room, your heels announcing your presence ahead of an appropriate greeting, you found your husband seated at the head of the table, engrossed in his tablet. To his right, standing behind the tall chair was Isono, seemingly informing your husband of news which fell deaf on your ear from where you stood, and from what you knew of your husband when he grew to be so inattentive, it wasn’t registering in his ears either, or so you assumed. Isono stopped speaking as you approached, offering his attention to you. He immediately took note of the unreserved smile brightly playing on your lips. Coupled with your uncharacteristically enthusiastic greeting, he immediately inquired what was inspiring your high spirits.

“I’m pregnant,” you informed him with elation, glancing over at your husband who had apparently only then grown aware of your arrival. You were confident Seto regarded Isono closely enough that your unilateral announcement wouldn’t bother him.

“My sincerest congratulations,” he responded with genuine delight, “Mr. and Mrs. Kaiba.”

“Thank you, Isono,” your husband declared stoically as you took the seat to the left of him, smoothing out the perhaps questionably short skirt of your black, silk lapelled, blazer dress, fitted at the waist. The opulent, diamond choker your husband had bought you tied around your neck, you were determined not to be outdone by his executive assistant’s ambitious style choices, and while perhaps petty, you simply _refused_ to be outdone. You had half expected a comment to be made on your husband’s part concerning the length of your hem or how far down your neckline dove, while simultaneously hoping the necklace currently gracing your neck would distract him from it - not that his opinion possessed the power to convince you to change - and as of that moment, it seemed your ploy had succeeded. Secretly, he was too enamoured by your appearance to even form a thought protesting it.

As breakfast was served, Isono momentarily excused himself on a phone call, and in his absence, you and your husband were joined by Yukari, and his secretary you were still at a loss for the name of. You were mid conversation with your husband regarding some specifics for the merger, when Yukari audaciously helped herself to the seat by his right hand. You had only not sat there as Isono was previously occupying the position. The implication of her brazen action, while either lost to or ignored by Seto, was not so on his secretary, who briefly exchanged her gaze with you as she hesitantly sat beside Yukari.

She bade Seto - only Seto - a good morning, while blatantly ignoring your presence. Upon receiving his terse response, she beamed, emulating the expression that had previously occupied your features that morning.

Seto asked for his schedule for the day to be read, and she sat upright in her chair, appearing as if she had just been appointed to carry out the most consequential task in all the world.

_Calm down lady, you’re not carrying the Olympic torch or something._

His schedule consisted primarily of meetings, with figures you for the greater part couldn’t tie significance to the names of, and your attention was beginning to veer from the conversation when Seto inquired when she had allowed time in his schedule for shopping.

“We can drop by Fifth Avenue between meetings with Warren and Cameron, Mr. Kaiba,” she informed, implying that she would be present, “what did you require?”

“That’s hardly half an hour,” Seto disputed, “I think my wife will require more time than that. I also need to pick her up from wherever she will be in the city at the given time.”

“Oh,” she contorted her lips, tone souring, “you meant with your wife. I see.” You raised an eyebrow at the remark. “In that case, you have a few hours before the dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Warren, and while we are on the topic, I have RSVP’d for two invitations.”

“That’ll do,” Seto agreed.

“We are going to dinner? That’s exciting!” you happily declared, being well acquainted with Serena, the woman his EA had referred to by Mrs. Warren. Your excitement was promptly cut short however, with the abrasive voice of the aforementioned EA swooping in to interrupt your conversation with your husband, correcting you.

“Oh no, given this is official corporate business, I think it would be best if - I will be accompanying Mr. Kaiba to tonight’s dinner as his companion for the night.”

You could hear a pin drop.

“I’m - I’m sorry,” you stuttered, absolutely incensed by the insinuation, “you will be what?”

 

 

 


	20. Kings & Queens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I hope you all enjoy the very long chapter. Please assume that each time American characters are being spoke to/with, that reader and Seto are speaking in English. I got tired of italicizing all English dialogue, or in reality, since this was typed entirely on an iPad, my italics don’t translate to AO3, and at the end of a greater part of 7000 words, I just couldn’t be bothered redoing it. Enjoy!

“Many of the businessmen will be present with a companion who is not their wives,” she continued to elucidate, not feeling threatened by your tone in the slightest.

“Yes, I’m sure,” your voice grew sharp, “I’m sure they will be present with the women they’re fucking. You cannot tell me Miss. Komei, that you’re so oblivious to what you being at the occasion alone with my husband would imply.“

“Have you lost your mind?” Seto interrupted in a dangerous growl, “That’s nonsensical. Change the number of RSVP’d guests to include you and Tomasaburo.”

You assumed Tomasaburo was the secretary sitting to the far left, across from you.

“Yes, sir,” she flinched, tone growing meek, and your lips smothered a chuckle.

Breakfast continued with a thick fog of tension looming over the table. At its conclusion, you felt as if you were drowning in mercury. The subtly seductive stares, innuendos, accidental brushing of hands; the level of psychologically warfare that was waged over the past half hour was killing you slowly.

The incessant chatter that ensued between the two women across from you while their boss was occupied by reading an urgent email was nerve grating.

“Everybody get out, I need to be alone with my husband,” you suddenly spoke up, intentionally, a degree sharper than necessary. “Isono, I think you should go and get Mr. Kaiba’s car ready for the morning.” You two, fuck off, you had wanted to say.

Seto’s eyes darted up to your unreadable expression, though he did not dispute your command. The table remained extremely still, save for the scraping of Isono’s chair against smooth marble as he excused himself from your company.

“Did I fucking stutter?”

There was suddenly an eruption of expended energy, as both women sprung to life at the absence of their boss intervening with his wife’s authority.

You threw your head back as the clicking of heels assaulting the marble was punctuated by the swinging of a heavy door in the distance.

“I’m going to impale that bitch with a harpoon,” you groaned.

“You need to control your temper,” he responded impassively, eyes falling back to his tablet, “it’s not good for the baby.”

“This is the last time we have breakfast with everyone else, you know, for the sake of the baby.”

“Fine.”

You stood up, unimpressed by the lack of attention you were receiving. You swung around the edge of the table to sit on your husband’s lap, straddling him, your already dangerously short skirt riding up your smooth thighs to gather at your hips.

“What are you doing?” he growled, dropping the tablet on the table behind you.

Brushing your fingers down the collar of his navy suit, you leaned forward, lips grazing the side of his neck, “kiss me,” you whispered before pulling away.

His lips curled up like the Cheshire cat’s, “Is that all you want me to do?”

“Don’t corrupt a young girl’s mind,” you played along, appearing scandalized.

“I think we’ve already established that there’s nothing innocent about you,” he husked, sinking his teeth against your lower lip and pulling you forward by your ensnared lip. You could feel a prominent bulge pressing against your bare thigh, his fingers wrapping around the buttons of your dress, lips pressing against yours ravenously as he slid the dress past your shoulders, the smooth silk lining caressing your skin as it slowly revealed the black lace of your bra. His lips traced the curve of your neck down to your shoulder, your hair stood on its ends at the sensation, and your hands dove to grip his hair.

He lifted you up abruptly, and you sucked in sharply, “Seto what are you doing?”you gasped, as he set off with you towards the bedroom.

“I’ve told you not to test me this early in the morning,” his voice was coarse against your ear and you squealed.

“I was just messing around!” you defended.

“I’m going to have to punish you for that,” he purred darkly, turning into the room.

Transfixed by his words you watched him with wide eyes. Standing before the bed, he laid you supine over the undone sheets, undoing the belt of his pants.

“Seto I’m pregnant,” you reminded him incredulously, as he pulled you towards him by the crook of your knee.

“You can handle it,” he asserted, slipping your underwear down your leg and past your ankle in one fluid motion. Your slender fingers wrapped around his forearm, and he paused, concern flashing fleetingly in his eyes, before yours urged him to continue.

You gripped the sheets, it was uncomfortable at first, there was a drawn friction from the unpreparedness. It hurt, and yet it felt good. He asked you if you were alright, his voice was strained as it wrestled through his clenched jaw. You nodded, at least, you had intended to. He continued.

As he collapsed over you panting, knee wedged into the sheets between your legs, a gentle sheen to his skin, you noticed he was careful not to smother you, supporting the weight of his torso on his folded arms. He kissed your cheek, then your forehead, before pulling away whispering he had meetings to attend.

“If I wasn’t pregnant before, I’m definitely pregnant now,” you remarked wryly, slipping on a new pair of underwear.

“You don’t fall pregnant thirty seconds after a man comes in you,” he snapped, seemingly unimpressed by your dry humour.

“Have a good day at work... I guess?” you offered awkwardly, watching him straighten his navy suit jacket.

“I’ll pick you up at six,” was his clipped response.

“I have a campaign shoot, I’ll send you the address.”

With a hum of acknowledgment, he disappeared from the room.

...

Slipping on your black Burberry trench and tying the belt in a careless knot around your waist, you could hear the echo of your cage styled Valentino stilettos, a black patent under the studded rocks against the stone floor as you left the elevator, walking towards the parking lot. You could trace your steps to the studio and back down with a blindfold by now. You waved your hand mechanically over the sliding glass door.

You found your husband on the other side, leaning against a silver Porsche, or so you assumed it was from the curved bonnet behind him. His one hand stuffed into the pocket of his khaki trench, eyes no doubt flying over the lines of whatever was lighting up his phone screen behind dark shades. His lips were turned down into a sour scowl. The click of your stilettos against smooth cement gained his attention.

“You’re early,” you noted, as he opened the door to the passenger seat, guiding you with a hand shielding your head from the arched roof.

“Are you complaining?”

“No,” you answered disconcerted by his tone, tossing your leather envelope clutch over the dash board.

You leaned over, intending to steal a kiss as he stepped into the driver’s seat. He avoided you, and instead your lips landed against his cheek.

“This morning,” he abruptly recalled, “I thought it would help your mood.”

Your eyebrows rose at the unexpected yet baffling confession, “What?”

“I don’t want you thinking I forced myself on you,” he continued gruffly, hands tightening around the steering wheel.

This conversation was entirely unanticipated on your part and yet it explained much of how he had reacted following the affair. You wondered if it had bothered him all day.

You smiled, “I’m not passive aggressive like that,” you assured, wrapping your arms around him, “I would have said something.”

It was the scoff followed by a sarcasm fuelled throaty chuckle that set you off.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” you bit back, leaning away.

“I didn’t realize I was being ambiguous,” he blandly retorted, leaning over and securing your seatbelt, before burning the rubber right off the wheels it felt as he drifted through the columns of the parking space, heading for the exit.

You assumed an unsavoury series of meetings was amplifying his aggression.

He had picked out a blue Givenchy gown he had informed you, light blue, the shade of forget-me-nots you assumed; his colour. What if you had wanted to wear a different colour, you had inquired defiantly, and it had only played towards souring his mood further. You would never know what his obsession was with dressing you up to emulate his favourite playing card, if that’s what this was about, and if not, what his fascination was with light blue. You could only find it bizarre.

Walking into the Fifth Avenue department store, the whole experience was bizarre. Your husband being who he is having agreed to this whole excursion which felt too mundane and leisurely was bizarre in its own right, and this moment was perhaps the most unfortunate to have an epiphany on how awkward and unbearable you found the thought of having someone else’s money spent on you, especially when the person in question was currently not on speaking terms with you.

Contractually speaking, Seto’s money was your money, and yet spending your husband’s money for the thrill of it you associated too closely with a textbook trophy wife, so you wondered what had possessed you to willingly request this of him.

“You’re hardly paying any attention,” Seto reproached, observing how your eyes absently glossed over the intricately embroidered tweed coats and cashmere sweaters.

“I don’t feel too well, let’s just go home, we have to get ready for the dinner later on anyway,” you urged, inadvertently tightening your grip on his arm.

“We can’t go to the dinner if you’re feeling unwell,” he blandly remarked. “You don’t look sick. What is this about?”

Damn how perceptive he had the capacity to be when he cared.

“Nothing,” you began to defend, when suddenly a greeting was extended to your husband by the gentleman of the approaching couple.

“Pleasant Evening Mr. Kaiba,” the older gentleman appearing to be in his late thirties repeated in English. Your impassive eyes drifted to the woman on his arm, her petite form weighed down by a heavy, tweed, houndstooth coat. Her tired blond hair was carefully curled, no doubt tamed by layers of product. From her fingers hung a collection of bags embellished with the department store’s insignia. You debated whether that was his wife. Her skin was exhausted enough to be, and yet she seemed much too young. One thing you could agree on; you were a judgemental bitch. You snickered at the thought.

Amid your disarrayed thoughts, you hadn’t heard your husband addressing you, or received the greeting the unfamiliar man had offered. It was when your husband’s voice grew rough and exasperated that his words penetrated your thoughts.

“Does she speak English?” you heard the gentleman ask your husband.

“Of course she speaks English,” Seto snapped, “she’s half English.”

A quick apology was muttered, and you received it with a dismissive nod of the head.

You weren’t in the mood to fraternize with whoever the couple was and from how Seto drawled through his responses, it didn’t seem he was either, though granted, he was never in a mood to socialize, being permanently taciturn. From the snippets of conversation you could muster the attention span to care for, you understood the aforementioned gentleman was an executive of the Kaiba Corp.’s New York branch, and the woman standing beside him was indeed his wife.

At the conclusion of the exchange, as you parted ways, Seto appeared even more irritable than he had been before, and it was mildly unsettling. He made a sharp turn towards the area housing the Chanel collections, and demanded you pick something so that this entire _stunt_ , as he had dubbed it, wouldn’t be a massive waste of his time.

Browsing through a few black dresses from the pre-fall collection, you gingerly flipped the price tag of one - a practice you weren’t accustomed to, never having cared for the price of a dress if in fact you liked it. It was too much a burden to receive something so lavishly priced, you reasoned, while making a mental note to have your personal shopper pick up one in your size. You thought you had been discreet in the act, though under the stealthy gaze of your husband, it had been too carelessly executed apparently, as he immediately snatched your wrist, asking if you wanted it.

“No,” you had said, and he narrowed his gaze.

“What is it?”

“It’s too expensive,” you mumbled truthfully, composure shattered under his unnerving glare. This was successful in earning a guttural growl.

He pulled you aside by your arm, away from the prying eyes of the sales associates.

“What the hell are you trying to pull?” he demanded to know under his breath. “Stop acting like some pauper,” he snarled, “Why is it so difficult for you to be a little more like the wives of my board directors? I can afford this entire department store. Five thousand dollars is pocket change, don’t insult me by calling that expensive!”

You flinched at his aggression, “It’s pocket change to the both of us,” you reminded. “But more like your director’s wives? Ha! You want me to be like those old hags? Say that again the next time you fuck me senseless because I turned you on wearing a plain nightdress!”

“Stop changing the subject,” he barked.

“Fine,” you choked, “you want a wasteful wife, then - “

“Money spent on you isn’t wasted, besides, you asked for this!” he interrupted.

You chuckled lowly, “You want me to act like some trophy wife to a rich husband, I mean that is what you are, filthy fucking rich. Here, watch how much damage I can really do!”

“Are you faulting me for my wealth?”

“I’m faulting you for being an asshole!”

He couldn’t understand what had upset you so severely and you couldn’t remember what had set off this series of emotional land mines either.

He appeared dumbstruck for a moment, before smirking, “Are those the pregnancy hormones talking, or is this an elaborate stunt for my attention?”

You were nonplussed. What could possibly have given him that impression? You were just shy.

“Neither!” you managed to muster, “you just piss me off.”

With that as a final remark, you stormed away, summoning a sales assistant. He followed, attempting to calculate your next move.

“Get me the entire collection in the smallest size you carry. Dresses, coats, accessories, handbags, shoes,” you handed your Valentino rock-stud stiletto to the stunned young woman, “here, use this as reference. Show me the Valentino collection after you’re done.”

“Would you like to try on any -”

“No need, I’ll just donate whatever I don’t like when I get home.”

The young woman walked away to accommodate your request and Seto hissed from beside you, “If this is your idea of revenge, you’re being childish.”

“Perhaps, but you wanted me to play a rich wife, I’m giving you what you asked for.”

“And this isn’t passive aggression?” he challenged.

You merely smiled, stroking his cheek. “And you can take me home after this and sleep with me, because that’s all trophy wives are good for.”

“Why are you doing this?” he demanded through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t start this Seto, you did.”

“What is it going to take to stop this? Name your price.”

You sighed, “See this is your problem. You can’t buy my obedience or affection. Sometimes I wonder if you love me.”

“You’re still questioning that?”

“Seto.”

“I was harsh on you,” he conceded, having had enough of this charade. “Are you...crying?” he questioned dubiously.

Your hands rose instinctively to wipe away the falling tears you hadn’t noticed earlier.

“Definitely the hormones,” you stifled a sob.

“People are watching,” he scolded in a hushed tone, wiping away a stray tear with his thumb. “You’re in no condition to do this today,” he added in a gentler tone, “I’ll make time in my schedule for a different day.”

“Thank you,” you choked.

Upon the return of the sales assistant, you reviewed the pieces she had compiled, and out of instinct, retrieved your credit card, much to the displeasure of your husband. Snatching the card from your fingers, he offered his own, while you scribbled the address of your penthouse, requesting that the items be delivered.

...

You rolled over under the comforter, incessant typing falling over your ears from beside you the moment your mind was called to consciousness. It had grown to be therapeutic in a sense, the constant sequence of fingers meeting keys. The typing ceased as you stirred, and you could feel a finger tracing your forehead, sorting wisps of stray hair.

You bundled against his side, the emotional exhaustion that had weighed over you earlier having lightened.

“What time is it?” you mumbled, refusing to open your eyes.

“Eight twelve.”

You shot up, as if an arrow flung against a target, “We are going to be late!”

“We don’t need to go if you’re unwell,” he offered calmly, as you turned back to look at him leaned against the headrest of the grand bed.

Your eyes wandered to the far corner of the dimly illuminated room, appraising the blue ball gown cascading from the velvet hanger hung against the white door of the walk-in closet.

“No, I want to go,” you spoke softly in insistence.

You heard him stow his laptop away on the nightstand behind you.

“Come here,” he urged, pulling you back against his chest. Against your temple, you could feel his heart beat pulsating. Cautiously, he folded his left arm under your body, placing his palm flat over your stomach. He wouldn’t speak, resting his chin over your crown.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” you murmured. “What you did this morning, it felt good - you always make me feel good, I may have not said it, but I did like it. I don’t know what came over me earlier. I wasted your time.”

“There was a complication, with closing a deal earlier,” he returned in a rough voice. You could feel your hair standing as if brittle needles at how deeply he spoke. “I may have taken it out on you.”

“What happened?” you inquired, concern brimming your tone, scrambling to sit up.

He held you firmly against him as he responded, “Warren’s board members were being inflexible with certain clauses of the contract.”

“Will they be present at this dinner tonight?”

He offered a throaty hum in response.

“That’s all the more reason for you to go. I’ve known Edward’s wife for quite some time now,” you informed him, referring to Mr. Warren, “I attended their wedding last year. Let me see what I can do.”

“It’ll hardly make a difference when his board is being difficult.”

“You haven’t seen how I work these people,” you remarked, earning a skeptical glare, “a girl has her ways. Just tell me about the specifics of your contract.”

“I don’t think I like your approach.”

“Relax, I’m not suggesting I sleep with them.”

“That’s a nauseating thought,” he grumbled.

“I only do that with you,” you added coyly.

He flipped you on your back abruptly, clambering over you with a dark expression clouding his face. Kissing you as if he were a parched traveller and you were water, he tangled his fingers in your hair. Trailing his lips away from yours, you could feel his hot breath breaking against your ear, as he whispered for you to get ready.

...

Standing before the mirror, your eyes grazed over the blue gown adorning your petite form in the mirror, the ethereal skirt blooming with layers upon layers of varying shades of hydrangea blue tulle, all neatly gathered at the waist with an oversized bow a shade darker than the skirt. The bustier was embroidered with wisps of tulle pulled taut over the nude lace underneath, fitting tightly around your chest.

Seto appeared behind you in a black tux. Circling his arms before your neck, he revealed a cascading diamond necklace. He caught your eye in your reflection as he placed the heavy string of stunning jewels over your naked collarbones. He brushed his fingers over your prickling skin, tracing them over your décolletage before he removed them from your form.

“You look ravishing,” he husked against your ear, once again causing the ends of your hair against the back of your neck not gathered into your low bun to stand as if fragile pins impaled into your skin. You turned in his arms, purring softly at his voice, and his lips stretched smugly. “Do you like that?” he taunted, as he often did in bed, and a discernible shudder broke through your body. He didn’t restrain his throaty chuckle, pressing his lips against your temple, gently, as if you were a fragile flower that would otherwise break. You noticed that quite frequently in his mannerisms, since he had learnt that you were expecting. He had grown careful, just as he had last time.

...

It was forty five past nine as he hurriedly guided you into the crystal accented elevator leading down from the penthouse. The dinner would begin around ten, and the venue, Serena’s apartment overlooking the Manhattan skyline was - accommodating New York traffic - at least half an hour away.

Stepping into the limousine, you found Yukari and the secretary ensconced against the far right window of the vehicle.

A low growl left your through inadvertently, and your husband immediately barked at the driver, “I thought I had made it clear that I wanted two vehicles arranged.”

He muttered an apology through the lowered partition, giving a length explanation on how Yukari had relayed different instructions; an excuse Seto didn’t possess the patience for.

“Seto we don’t have time for this right now,” you had told him, “arrange for a separate car for the drive home.” You instructed the driver to depart as you settled closer than was necessary against your husband on the backseat, under the watchful eye of his executive assistant. You had no other motivation besides spiting her.

Her lip was turned up in visible disdain. At first glance, it was obvious she abhorred you, and nothing afforded you greater pleasure.

As the limo pulled into ridiculous Manhattan traffic, Yukari crept closer to the edge of her seat, inching towards your husband. She was dressed in an undeniably charming dark blue taffeta dress, her strapless neckline plain but revealing, and well tailored to offer her a tasteful cleavage. It was only unfortunate that the woman in the gown didn’t know how to carry herself with equal grace. The secretary beside her was dressed in a lighter blue gown, sheer to a great extent, revealing both her arms underneath her long, gathered sleeves fitted at the wrist, as well as over her neckline. You’ve noticed she preferred sheer attire, recalling what she had worn to her interview for the position. Her dress flared at the waist, the tulle falling narrower than your own monstrously inflated skirt.

“If anyone saw us they’d think we were your harem,” you whispered to your husband, disgust lacing your words. “What the fuck is with all this blue?” you hissed under your breath.

He wouldn’t respond, releasing a dissatisfied growl at your remark.

Yukari leaned forward, inquiring if Seto has had a pleasant evening so far. Your hand unconsciously sought your husband’s inner thigh, gripping it tightly at how sugar seemed to drip from her words as she spoke.

Ignoring her advances, Seto turned his attention to you. He wouldn’t pry your hand off him as he briefed you on the details of the contract he was attempting to secure.

From the corner of your eye, you revelled as you watched the expression of the woman who had advised you not attend this dinner as it involved official corporate business, grow rancorous and vindictive.

It was also playing to your advantage that Seto had the tendency to grow more affectionate towards you when you were pregnant.

She spent the remainder of the drive, glaring unabashedly at your engagement ring. If it weren’t already made of stone, her resentful glare would have turned it to stone.

...

It was an intimate dinner, despite the white tie dress code, that is, as intimate as a dinner could be, hosting thirty six guests seated around a dining table.

You were guided by the footman through grand oak doors, with your husband’s arm wrapped around your waist, to a dining room full of already seated guests, roaring conversation being exchanged amongst themselves; the dinner in full swing. Older gentlemen occupied a greater number of seats, followed by extravagantly dressed young women who were, perhaps the secretaries, perhaps the escorts, though clearly not wives or daughters of the aforementioned men.

Across the table unfolded a decadent feast, boasting a variety of cuisines; nothing short of what you had expected from Serena.

Rising from her place to the right of her husband seated at the head of the table, Serena floated towards you, her cloud like skirt billowing about the blue eyed, blonde haired beauty as she engulfed you in a bear hug, tearing you from your husband’s grip.  
You had been reaching for a formal kiss on the cheek.

“Oh it’s so great you could make it,” she gushed, “I was so excited to hear you were coming, I even had that ox tail tortellini from the one restaurant you really liked added to the menu just for you. I was so worried you wouldn’t make it.”

“Serena, I’m here,” you reminded her, and she released you.

“Right, of course,” she spoke breathless from her rant. She politely extended her greeting to Seto, and invited you to sit.

A seat was left open to the left of Mr. Warren for your husband, and another to the left of Seto for you. The two accompanying assistants were ushered to a far corner of the table and you could only hope one of them was proficient in English.

Conveniently, to your left was the chief director of Mr. Warren’s board, you soon learned, and you spared no time in showering him with your undivided attention, disregarding even Serena’s attempts at conversing with you.

Flashing him a sultry smile, you leaned forward slightly, your diamond necklace slipping further to nestle against the valley between your bound chest, his eyes following undisguisedly. You intentionally trailed your fingers down your exposed neck as you conversed with him. You could see his attention visibly falling away from the young woman he had accompanied to the dinner, captivated by you completely. He was practically drowning in your charm, slipping further with each brush of your fingertips, each detail you let slip, the register of your laughs, all calculated to a decimal. You were constructing a fantasy, as you often did with your idols, a mirage, if you will; one that was unattainable, and yet while they were so desperately convinced that it was within their grasp, you would attain what you desired.

As you strategically excused yourself at the conclusion of dessert, you lightly traced your fingertips over the back of Seto’s tuxedo collar triumphantly, the knowing smile lighting up your face contrasting his quizzical countenance. You knew exactly what words would be exchanged between your husband and the old man in your absence; the words you were betting on. Your fiancée is charming, he would say, he was willing to discuss more favourable terms, he would say. You would bet an arm and a leg.

Navigating your way to the powder room, you collapsed on the red velvet tufted French settee situated in the middle of the room, floor length mirrors stretching to the ceiling around the small oval room.

Conversing with that old man had been consuming, the lingering odour of imported cigar fumes on his suit jacket and in his breath severely nauseating. Even as you lounged against the curled armrest of the settee, you could feel the bile threatening to ascend your esophagus in spite of the fresh air you were laboriously cycling through your lungs. You wondered if it was your acid reflux inspiring this violent compulsion to vomit or if it was one of the many trials of pregnancy.

“The things I do for you,” you muttered towards the ceiling, cursing your husband mentally as you exhaled exaggeratedly, attempting desperately to rid yourself of any cigarette vapour that may have escaped into your lungs.

The door swung open a few feet before you, and you languidly pushed yourself to lean with more grace against the settee, instead of continuing to assume a position which more closely resembled a tired, upturned sloth.

Your eyes first caught sight of the heavy blue taffeta swinging against the door and sweeping across the marble tiled floor before your eyes wandered up to the woman the dress adorned, though even before your eyes met hers, the lustrous taffeta was enough to immediately make you aware of exactly who it was.

“Hello,” you greeted, hoping to make civil conversation in spite of everything, returning to Japanese after an evening of speaking in English. You couldn’t hope to remain at war indefinitely with your husband’s employees you had reasoned in mind, despite however repulsive she was. “Pleasant evening so far? Serena really went to town with -“

“Yes, quite,” she responded tersely, cutting you off with a sharpness, and no regard for the olive branch you had just extended.

You felt as if you were being mistreated by the self-appointed mistress of the relationship, despite of course, Seto having zero interest in her.

“That’s good,” you muttered softly, feeling the air grow thick with tension. You remained still for a few more minutes, unsure why you suddenly felt so unnerved around this woman, before attempting to speak again, “I was mannerless this morning, I apologize.”

“At the time I didn’t realize you were so intimate with Mr. Kaiba,” she declared abruptly, smearing a heavy coat of red lipstick over her luscious lips, facing the mirrors behind you, “though I suppose even in an arrange marriage there are needs.”

“Excuse me?” you swirled around in your seat, thoroughly disconcerted.

“Nothing,” she smiled menacingly, meeting your eyes in the reflection before her.

Admitting you had wronged her was your first mistake, apologizing to her was your second.

“Did you watch us?” you accused, horrified and incensed.

She would only widen her smile, refusing to comment, refusing to deny the sickening accusation.

She addressed you by your first name, and you snapped. You rose from your seat, intending to admonish the woman severely, to put it civilly, when the door swung open for a second time that evening, and a group of chattering monkeys let themselves in, their fruity perfumes drowning the room.

“You may address me as Mrs. Kaiba, Miss. Komei,” you growled under your breath, stressing her name with a venomous consistency to your voice, audible enough for only her to hear, before turning sharply on your heels, and storming out.

...

Directed by one of the many servers towards the living room upon your return, you willed yourself to calm down, if not for yourself, for the sake of your baby. The living room of the suite was decorated in a similar palate as the dining room, black wallpaper painted with brambles of oak in hues of dusty gold and brass climbing the walls, glistening under the opulent crystal chandeliers suspended from the high ceiling.

In search of your husband, you weaved through the standing guests of the dinner party, now congregated in various groups across the room, conversing as they had been in the dining room.

A set of cold fingers wrapped around your exposed shoulders from behind, startling you immensely, before Serena’s voice bubbling with her usual ardor fell over your ears.

“We have so much to catch up on,” she squealed, seizing hold of your left hand, appraising critically the ring wrapped around your finger. “I mean, you’re engaged! That’s so random, what’s with that? I didn’t even know you two were dating.” She was practically bursting at the seam with curiosity, the good kind; the sincere kind. “You have to tell me all about him, come sit.” She navigated through the crowds with her fingers strung through yours. “I mean, he’s so...stoic, from what Edward tells me,” she scrunched her nose, turning back with a soured expression, “is he like that with you, or is that just a facade?”

“He’s literally a miracle,” you answered honestly, “I keep saying I must have saved a country in a previous life to have met him.”

“Come again?” she inquired, having missed the cultural reference.

“It means I’m beyond lucky to have met him,” you elaborated.

She flashed you a genuine smile as she guided you towards the wall of glass at the edge of the room, overlooking the gorgeous skyline, “I’m happy for you, honestly.”

Prior to meeting her now husband who was the president of a software development corporation, and getting married, Serena had been an ace attorney at a top legal firm. She was, and is still, outspoken, a raging extrovert, and an incredibly insightful woman. She has now assumed the role a housewife, despite not knowing the first thing regarding domestic affairs, though she swears it’s only a temporary phase while she enjoys her wedded bliss, though at the conclusion of the greater part of seven months, that still remained to be seen.

She urged you to sit by the windows in a private corner of the room, an unlit fireplace carved from white marble behind you. You sat on black velvet tufted chairs on either side of a crystal chess board. The chairs were rather low off the ground, allowing your billowing skirt of rippling tulle to gather in a wispy mound on the polished hardwood floor. The back rest carved of matte, gold rungs which sprung up like plucked twigs sprayed with golden frost during the holidays, curved like fern fronds at the ends behind you.

Serena sat across from you, facing away from the skyline of the twinkling city outshining the stars to shame, smoothing the golden satin of her skirt as she did. A glass of port wine she had swiped from a server poised between her fingers, her hazel eyes sparkled with mischief, glancing at her husband before focusing them on you.

“I bagged a good one right?”

“Seven months after the wedding, I’m glad you still think so,” you chuckled, eyes lingering for a moment longer that you had intended to on the white tux clad gentleman currently being pestered by a throng of women.

“Oh don’t worry about them,” Serena chimed, “lethal as they maybe, Edward’s harmless.”

“Is he?” you inquired, a wistful sigh punctuating your sentence.

“What is it?” she returned your question with another, knowingly. “Is It that one secretary of your fiancé’s?”

“How did you...”

“I overheard her asking him if he noticed how you hadn’t looked at him once the whole evening. Thank goodness I minored in Japanese.”

“I looked at him! And I was talking to his business partners!” you raised your voice, outraged by the preposterous assertion, and she promptly hushed you. “That bitch,” you hissed.

“I know, I know,” she returned in a whisper.

“So? What did he say?”

“Who?”

“My husb - “ you faltered, “Seto, how did he respond?”

“He basically told her to stay in her lane.”

“Basically?” you raised an eyebrow, begging for her to elucidate.

“He told her she wasn’t paid to sputter gutter-trash nonsense, especially about his - I think he said his wife, my Japanese is rusty.”

You muffled a laugh against the back of your hand, “Sounds like something he would say. Do you play chess?”

“God no, this is just here for decoration, Edward is particular about details like this you know? Seriously though, I had to leave the room to stop myself from laughing in her face,” she returned your snicker, taking a sip of her wine. “Oh! Here she comes,” she spoke in a quiet voice, directing her eyes towards the entrance of the room.

“Would you excuse us for a moment?”

“What are you planning to do?” she inquired, suspicious at your tone.

“Nothing,” you waved her off.

“I know you,” she pressed, hesitantly standing up and vacating her seat, “I don’t want a murder in my new house,” she whispered, sweeping her long fingers over your exposed shoulders, as she walked to stand beside you, facing the door behind you in the distance.

“Careful, don’t write a novel.”

Serena disappeared into the crowd of guests, and you looked over your shoulder.

“Yukari,” you called out to her as she walked through the doorway, momentarily engaging the attention of everyone in the drawing room. She traversed the room with trepidation in her step at the sudden warmth in your address, her maddening self-importance still intact...waiting to be shattered. “Do you know how to play chess?” You inquired as she drew nearer.

She swept her fingers under the heavy taffeta skirt of her gown as she sat, on the seat previously occupied by Serena, her legs neatly folded to the side, her petite shoulders upright, emulating your composure and grace as if some husband stealing chameleon.

You draped your folded elbow over the backrest, offering her a smile which at once spoke of and concealed your intentions.

She addressed you by your first name again. She did know how to play chess. Charming.

“Would you like a game?” you invited demurely.

She couldn’t but accept the challenge; there was an air of quiet death in the request, death to the dignity of the losing party, and she couldn’t resist murdering yours, no. Though perhaps that existed in every game played; perhaps the implication here was much more sinister. Did she think you were playing for your husband’s affection?

Your moonstone pawn moved first, then another; her black obsidian one, followed by a knight, a bishop, an obsidian rook captured, a moonstone pawn slaughtered by a dark knight, and suddenly the firm grip of a hand on your bare shoulder startled you. Following up the dark suited arm, you found your husband’s azure eyes watching you.

You fought the smirk forming against the corner of your lips. It wasn’t her he was standing behind.

Your husband was reeled into conversation sometime later by an older gentleman with a cigar between his plump fingers, and the two of you were left alone once again. Aiko, the formerly nameless secretary, appeared behind Yukari.

An obsidian knight fell, and your coral lips contorted deliciously, “Check.”

Her pretty onyx eyes twitched, darting up to you before scouring the board for danger. She moved her king to safety away from your looming knight, right into the war path of your waiting queen.

“Check mate,” you purred, snatching the polished obsidian king from the board.

A small cry of indignation, as if from a mangled stray cat smothered in her throat.

“You know,” you cooed, rolling the captured king between your fingers, your voice silken cashmere, “Seto likes chess, it’s a sensible game, but he’s not the most powerful piece - the king, I mean, his queen is. The object of the game is to seize the king, but your mistake here was that you forgot he has a queen. It’s the queen you have to be careful of. After all, it’s the queen who kills, always.” You stood up, brushing the gathered tufts of tulle with a soft rustle. “Stop addressing my husband as if I’m not there,” you warned, “Let this game be a lesson on what happens to those who touches my king.” 


	21. Queens Vs. Empresses

In the solitude of the limousine’s backseat, Seto turned to you with a quizzical brow arched over his stern gaze, “What did you tell Charles?”

You swallowed. There was suddenly a chill nipping at your skin; perhaps that chill was always there, but you were noticing it only now. How did he so masterfully succeed in withering your otherwise unwavering confidence in your abilities with a mere narrowing of his eyes? You could sense your stomach churning slightly, just enough to be felt.

“Well that depends on what he told you,” you apprehensively responded, agitatedly reflecting back on your conversation with the chief director of Warren’s board.

“What you exchanged with him in your conversation will hardly be changed by what he told me. What did you tell him?” he repeated, punctuating his words with a firm grip around your wrist.

“I may have hinted at the merging of our corporations and more transparently spoken on our wedding,” you quietly declared.

“Have you gone insane?” he roared, as you had expected, rage swelling in his chest.

“Consider the significance of the contract,” you implored, placing your palm over his hand binding your other wrist, “and not just by monetary value. Where are you going to find another competent supplier? China? The only corporation that produces this in their plants are our direct competitors. It’s just financially sensible to produce this in house either. A merger between our two corporations will be epic, and a partnership solidified by marriage? There isn’t anyone on earth who wouldn’t want to be a part of that. There wasn’t any other way and you know it, and besides there’s hardly anyone that can stop this merger besides one of us, there’s nothing to worry about.” You leaned back against your seat, pursing your lips, “Watch, he’ll call you before ten tomorrow morning agreeing to sign entirely on your terms.”

He threw a skeptical glare in your direction, “How can you be so sure?”

“I told you, I have my ways, I can read men.”

“All men?” he scoffed, “You seem to have a pretty damn hard time reading me.” It wasn’t smugness in his tone, rather dismay, referring to how you constantly misinterpreted his intentions and faulted him unfairly.

“You’re in a class of your own,” you bluntly remarked, “plus, it’s not easy reading the same guy you’re forced to share a comforter with every night. Your pheromones are messing with me.”

“What the hell is she saying?” he muttered to himself, crossing his arms, and resigning himself to staring out the window, releasing your wrist.

Leaning persistently over his arm, you beamed, “I did good right?”

His infamous smirk turning up his lip, he placed his open palm over your crown, languidly rustling your hair, “You did good kid.”

A strained cry of displeasure rolled in your throat, “I told you not to call me that.”

“What would you rather have me call you?” he inquired gruffly, as you settled your head against his stubbornly crossed arms, nestling into him.

“My love is perfectly acceptable, or even my dear,” you mused, staring up at him.

“My love?” he repeated with discernible amusement, sarcasm dripping from his tone; though the depth of his register never failed to make you swoon.

...

Your eyes drifted surreptitiously towards the vibrating phone on the table, before falling over the face of your crystal encrusted wristwatch; quarter to ten. You wondered why he was calling, he knew you would be in a meeting. Could the man never learn to text, or were his needs too important to be kept waiting in an inbox?

“Something wrong?” the campaign director inquired, having observed your wandering gaze.

“No, it’s just my husband,” you faltered again, “uhm, pardon me, my future husband— excuse me for a moment.”

“Yes of course,” he gestured with his hand for you to attend the call.

You slipped away from the room, carefully closing the glass door behind you.

“Seto I’m in a meeting, what is it?” you practically hissed, while motioning with your eyes a greeting to the staff members passing you in the narrow hallway of the magazine office.

“You were right,” he spoke gruffly, “Warren’s board agreed to sign the contract on my terms.”

“That’s lovely, I’m happy for you,” you spoke with forced pleasantness, impatient to return to your meeting, “can we talk about this at home? I’ll bring a bottle of champagne.”

“You’re pregnant, you can’t drink,” your husband sternly reminded, “and I’m calling because he wants you to come, to the contract signing.”

“Who’s he? And why would I, I have nothing to do with this, you don’t need my signature,” you begged for clarification.

“Charles, who else?” he barked blandly, as if you ought to know. “And I don’t know why he wants you to be there and I could care less, just tell me where you are so I can pick you up and put this contract behind me.”

“I’m at Vogue, and I’m in a meeting,” you repeated, “I can’t just walk out.”

“The signing is in an hour,” he advised nonchalantly.

“You’re unbelievable. I’ll be done by half ten, pick me up then.”

He hung up without warning, and you watched the darkened screen of your phone mildly nonplussed. He had the penchant for being incomprehensibly inconsiderate at times.

“Asshole,” you muttered to yourself as you returned to your meeting.

...

Sliding into the backseat of his black Benz, he appraised your sheer baby blue dress embroidered all over with pink blossoms, puffed sleeves fitted above the elbow, and skirt hardly grazing your mid-thigh when standing.

His eyes crinkled immediately, “That’s lingerie, not a dress,” he asserted, slipping his suit jacket off.

In the rear view mirror, you caught the bitter gaze of his executive assistant. Isono refrained from comment, as was expected.

The smooth silk of the lining of his jacket caressed your thigh as he draped it over your knees.

“We don’t exactly have time to change,” you plainly remarked.

“We would if you left your meeting on time.”

“I didn’t have to leave my meeting at all,” you bit back, crossing your legs, the heel of you nude Valentinos grazing his grey slacks from under his suit jacket.

He reached over, dragging his thumb over your dark pink tinted lips, smearing your lipstick all over.

“Why would you do that?” you screeched, instinctively reaching for you the mirror you carried in your envelope clutch.

He wouldn’t respond, and you seethed, wiping smudges of rosy pink off the corners of your mouth. He wouldn’t respond, so you wouldn’t know that he didn’t feel his partner’s board deserved to lay eyes on you while you looked that way.

You reached for your lipstick again and he lowered your arm, “You’re fine as you are.”

“I look like I had lunch and forgot to put my lipstick on,” you argued, applying a fresh coat despite his unrelenting glare.

There was a familiar ache in his lower half, one he couldn’t presently address, despite the object of, as well as solution to his frustration being inches from his reach, and that was inspiring the majority of the ire you were currently, unwittingly on the receiving end of.

He drowned his attention in his tablet, ignoring you for the remainder of the drive.

...

You arrived at an upscale restaurant, a glass building fronted by gold lettering of the sign curling opulently over a glossy black board. Entering through a wrought iron fence and gateway reaching no higher than your waist guarding the gravel paved patio prepared for the coming season, you were guided up to a private balcony patio overlooking the streets of Manhattan.

There you were warmly greeted by Charles, planting a kiss on either of your cheeks, he shook hands with your husband. He didn’t bother acknowledging the brooding assistant that had been trailing you, as he moved to reintroduce the other members of the board. Yukari was directed promptly following to join the other secretaries that had accompanied the directors at an indoor table on the second floor. You exchanged a pleasant smile with Serena’s husband, before pursing your lips as you realized Serena was not present. This was going to be a long morning.

Seto helped you on to the counter high chair, before taking a seat to your right, and immediately slipped into conversation with Mr. Warren seated beside him.

The contract was soon finalized, a formal handshake exchanged, and the brunch menus were handed by the wait staff along with a few bottles of champagne.

You watched the effervescent bubbles crash against the bottom of the glass flute catching the late morning sun, before stubbornly flying up to the surface. Charles slid the flute across the glass table to you.

“To the woman who made this partnership possible,” he declared, and with a hesitant smile you accepted. The men around the table raised their glasses, toasting the partnership and you discreetly set down your glass, only having brought it to your lips for the sake of formality.

You fell into conversation with Charles, and Seto tactfully switched your untouched glass with his nearly empty one so as to not rouse unnecessary suspicion. The older man whose fingertips were brushing your bare arms without invitation offered to fill your glass once more and you politely refused. You learnt that he had - regrettably, in his words - outlived his first and second wife, both of whom he had loved dearly, and a daughter turning sixteen this year from his first marriage. The conversation took an uncomfortable turn when he mentioned that this time he felt a step-mother who was closer to his daughter’s age would be comfortable for their family dynamic, given this would offer someone his daughter could communicate with openly. It was at this point that you invited Seto attention, firmly clutching his thigh under the table, nails digging in. Seto was clueless joining the exchange, though the topic did deviate considerably from the previous, brazen, thinly veiled proposal, under your husband’s imposing presence.

...

“This isn’t the first contract you’ve helped me close,” Seto apprised on the drive back. Once again, you caught the resentful glare of his assistant in the rear view mirror, pretty almond eyes weighed with shadow contorting with ire. “President Park I was informed also pushed for a faster contract finalization having met you.”

“You supposedly reminded him of his wife,” Isono added.

The praise fell on deaf ears, only feeling the ends of your hair stand like acupuncture needles raised on pressure points, aggravating the bile threatening to boil over. Your hand fell over Seto’s thigh, bracing for the acid climbing your throat. There was an unsavoury burning sensation spilling across your jaw.

You were at least fifteen minutes away from your residence accounting for Manhattan traffic.

Snapping to attention, he called out to Yukari, “Hand me the paper bags from the glove compartment,” he barked. You clamped a hand over your mouth, watching her languidly rummage the drawer. “Hurry up!” Seto’s voice pierced your muddled state of being.

Realizing the situation, Isono stepped on the gas pedal each moment the traffic loosened.

As Yukari passed the flaxen hued bags, Seto snatched the bundle, opening up one bag and holding it out to you.

Unbuckling your seat belt you accepted it, hunching over the bag which smelt distinctly of raw oats; that dull, papery sweetness. It smelt so foul to you in that moment and yet it halted your impending purge.

You lowered the bag, the soured expression never leaving your face, just as Isono failed to escape the changing lights and was forced to abruptly pull the car to a standstill before the empty crosswalk. You fell forward slightly, narrowly missing the headrest in front of you by anchoring an arm against the driver’s seat. Seto began to bark at Isono for his carelessness when the vehicle behind, confused by the unexpected halting, rear ended your car with such force that it sent the vehicle lurching forward into oncoming traffic.

Your eyes remained transfixed on the black Lexus speeding in your direction; you could sense your heart palpitate. You felt a crushing grip around your upper arm, your husband pulling you into his embrace, shielding you from the stream of oncoming traffic. There was a deafening noise, as if a cannon had fired and the ball of heavy metal launched into the air had lodged against your door. There was movement, was the car spinning? Your mind drifted to remember a cannonade from a bygone night, your skin prickled. The car came to a screeching halt, and your mind vaguely registered distant dialogue being exchanged, the door of the driver’s seat opening, then promptly closing, and footsteps against asphalt leading away. There was a deafening wall of horns drowning out any sensible thought, a massive dent in your door, distinctly resembling crumpled paper on an office floor.

When Seto lifted you up from your folded position against his chest, inquiring if you were alright, you were hysterical. Through the violent sobbing however, you managed to observe how the car had rolled over into the adjacent pavement of the intersection, closely escaping impact with a fire hydrant. Isono was speaking with the offending driver.

“Are you alright?” he repeated, tone growing rougher.

“Our baby,” you cried, “I can’t lose another one, not again.” It’s all you could repeat, desperately clutching your stomach.

“You’re fine,” he assured, before turning to address Yukari, “Locate the nearest hospital specializing in gynaecology,” he ordered.

“Gynaecology?” she stuttered, spinning in her seat to peer at you with widened eyes.

“Yes, what part was confusing to you?” Seto grit his teeth.

A few more moments of your hysterical sobbing, and having apparently received an address, Seto pulled you out of the Benz now more closely resembling a crushed metal can. Hailing a taxi, he guided you into the backseat before stepping in himself.

Yukari chased after, hooking her claws against the half rolled window, “But sir, what about the rest of your schedules?” she inquired, distraught.

His arm around your back, “What do you think?” Seto growled, before instructing the driver to depart.

...

There were dried trails of mascara staining your reddened cheeks as you huddled against Seto in the backseat of one of his cars he had ordered be sent following your visit to the hospital. The pregnancy had not being affected they had confirmed, and you could feel oxygen slowly reach your brain once again, tangible thought finally forming.

Yukari was in the front seat again. This was the first ire inspiring detail that had formed in your mind. She was akin to a leech you simply couldn’t peel off your limbs. It was persistently there, making your skin crawl; a pretty leech, a well dressed, irritatingly well composed and well educated one. Besides her penchant for petty remarks and unrelentingly vying for your husband’s attention, perhaps even affection, you couldn’t professionally fault her, and she knew. It was utterly infuriating.

“It’s my fault,” you muttered, recalling the accident, “If I hadn’t rushed Isono...”

“It’s not your fault,” he reassured, “he was careless.”

“It’s all my fault,” you repeated, inconsolable, and your husband sighed.

“Mr. Kaiba,” Yukari called from the front seat, “Are you alright sir? Do you not need medical attention?”

It should have been you asking that question. Had you been a competent wife, a truly caring one, you should have asked him that, not his assistant.

“Obviously not,” Seto scathingly rejected, while stroking your back calmingly. “Stop wasting your time with useless concerns, and apply yourself to rearranging my schedule.”

“I wasted your whole day, I’m so sorry,” you murmured again. “At least make it to the meetings you can still make it to.”

“It’s nothing I can’t compensate for tomorrow and in my office this evening.”

Yukari‘s aggrieved glare in the rear view mirror was the last you remembered before drifting off to sleep.

...

Roused by awkward shuffling below you, you came to consciousness to find Seto preparing to carry you out of the vehicle.

“I can walk,” you mumbled, fighting his hands curled under you.

“Nonsense,” he dismissed, lifting you into his arms.

  
Laying you down on the bed, he inquired if you needed help changing. “No,” you had told him, and he had promptly disappeared, advising you rest to recover from the shock.

Waking up, dusk was falling over the city through the wall of windows in the far corner of your room. The bed was empty, the sheets cold in your husband’s absence.

Stalking out of your bedroom in a blush, silk, lingerie inspired nightie, you could feel the cold tile kiss your soles. You wrapped a grey shawl loosely around your shoulders, sauntering to your husband’s study. Leaning forward to push against the heavy mahogany door left ajar, a familiar female voice fell over your ear, and you immediately spun around, creeping away back in the direction from which you had come.

You wouldn’t afford that bitch the satisfaction of seeing you this bare, not at your expense.

Escaping into the ensuite bathroom, you applied fresh foundation, matting it flawlessly with translucent powder. Concealing your tired dark circles, you dusted blush over your cheeks, before lining your eyes and sweeping a light coat of mascara over your lashes.

You slipped on a white silk blouse, long bishop sleeves fitting at the wrist with an oversized bow tied loosely around your neck, under a pleated jade skirt reaching your calves. Retrieving your engagement ring from where you had tossed it over the nightstand, and fishing your wedding band from your purse, you slid it over your ring finger, before leaving the bedroom.

Nudging the door open with your elbow, you wandered into Seto’s office, a tray with a mug of coffee and fresh blackberry crepes in hand. Your entrance gained the attention of both your husband as well as his assistant, and you offered him a smile as you placed the silver tray on a spot not overrun by documents.

“Oh no, I just made Mr. Kaiba a cup of coffee,” Yukari interjected, and you smiled again, this time in her direction.

“You just made a cup?” you repeated in question, glancing over at the cup of coffee yet to be touched. “Good, then he hasn’t had any yet. You can remove this,” you advised, handing her the cup.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Seto questioned ignoring the tension, reaching for the mug you had brought in, narrowing his eyes. You flinched as he took a sip. You couldn’t make good coffee to save your life, so you usually overcompensated by dumping more coffee grinds than necessary. His expression briefly contorted in approval, before looking back up at you for a response.

Beside you, his assistant was fuming. She excused herself.

“I didn’t have much to do after I woke up. I made you crepes from what the maids had put in the fridge.”

He appraised the plate of violet syrup drizzled crepes, fingers knitted under his chin.

“I used blackberry because you don’t like sweet things,” you extended apprehensively, “though I did boil it down with sugar...oh no, do you not like crepes? Or blackberries?”

“That’s not it,” he spoke contemplatively, “you should be resting.”

“I’m fine, I made a big deal out of nothing.”

“You’re taking this pregnancy seriously,” he disagreed, “that’s improvement. Come here.” You walked around his desk. “Why are you dressed up?” he husked, pulling you to stand between his knees.

“I just felt like it,” you softly mumbled, leaning down to steal a kiss.

He spent another long moment watching you in silence. It was completely dark outside now, beyond the wall of glass beside you, city lights coming to life. He pulled you to sit on his lap, spinning his chair to face his desk.

Reaching for the fork, he took a bite of your crepes; your fingers unwittingly clenching against his dress shirt awaiting judgement. He forced a kiss against your cheek, before proceeding to finish the plate while occasionally offering you a bite.

You didn’t need to ask for confirmation on whether he liked it, he wasn’t a man who would do something unwillingly. His actions spoke volumes in the absence of words.

You inquired as he ate on what was keeping him in his office, keen to display some interest in his work which you never entirely understood, and he indulged you in a lengthy monologue, congested with words you couldn’t hope to comprehend. You nodded along, and even having set down his fork, he continued, droning on about the details of some hologram prototype.

In the distance, rapping against a door interrupted him, and you stood up.

“Yukari will answer it,” he insisted, holding on to you.

“No,” you disagreed, staggering away from his desk, “I’m the lady of the house, I’ll get it.”

Leaving the study, you called out for Yukari not to answer it, and strode over yourself, past the tile encrusted floor of the oval lobby, designed to resemble a lotus in onyx and ivory triangles, on the middle of which sat a carved, mahogany teapoy holding a China vase, from which an elaborate arrangement of white orchids and roses sprung.

Answering the main double doors, you were greeted by a clerk from your New York branch standing in the blue-carpeted hallway. He handed you a heavily bound manila envelope.

“What’s this?” you inquired with a hitched brow, unwinding the string woven between the two metal prongs.

“This was faxed over from head office,” he explained, “I was only told by head office’s legal department that there were changes made to the merging agreement directly by Mr. Kaiba that required your reviewing. The changed clauses are highlighted and annotated in red.”

“Seto did?” you muttered absently, fishing the documents from within the envelope and beginning to flip through the bundle. The clerk, having inquired if his continued presence was needed, excused himself, bidding you a pleasant evening.

You distractedly drifted over to the couch in the grand living room, briefly scanning over the documents and their comments. Reading through a particularly heavily annotated section, your eyes narrowed, and you could feel your blood flow backwards in your veins, anger swelling in your throat.

Storming into your husband’s office, you demanded his assistant leave for the evening. Hearing the door close in the distant, you slammed the papers against his desk.

He merely raised an eyebrow, his fingers laced under his chin as he leaned forward, “What’s this?” he inquired.

“You bloody well know what it is!” you raged, and he clicked his tongue, calling your name. “You amended the contract we both agreed on. Without even asking for my input. Hell, you didn’t even bother to mention it to me! What the hell were you thinking?”

“As the pregnancy progresses, you won’t be able to handle all your responsibilities with your poor health,” he calmly defended, as if his unilateral decision had been rational, maddening you further.

“I’ll decide what I can and cannot handle,” you challenged, tone growing increasingly more livid, “This amendment makes it so that I’m below you in authority. It’s almost as if Kaiba Corp. Is _acquiring_ Kodama. Why would you do that?”

He called your name again, “Listen to me,” he commanded, and you shook your head, refusing to comply. “The contract was not amended to strip you of your authority,” he maintained, “I did it for the sake of your health. I want you and our child to - “

“I’m not signing this,” you shook your head, interrupting him.

He walked around his desk to tower over you, heaving an exasperated sigh. “You’re not thinking straight.”

You narrowed your tear brimmed eyes at him, wrestling his grip against your arms, “I’d rather be a queen to my own kingdom, than an empress to an emperor ruling over _his_ empire. Do you understand me?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: an empress ranks higher than a queen to anyone confused or missing the reference.


	22. Gone With The Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Think the Gfriend song for this title, not Scarlet O’Hara and her curtains XD If anyone has heard the song, the title will make sense.

“Must you insist on always being so overly dramatic?” he condemned, derision plain in his manner.

A suppressed cry of indignation left you. “And I’m the idiot for wanting to give you children. You think less of me because I’m going to be a mother?”

“Stop spewing nonsense,” he dismissed, “you can’t hope to work through this pregnancy. Do you not remember what happened last time?”

“Yes that was all my fault!” your voice rippled in thunderous waves through the empty study, breaking against the ceiling high bookcases before falling to an inaudible whisper, “Why would you remind me?”  
  
The tear sodden inquiry appeared to stump him momentarily before he spoke once again, “It seemed as though you had forgotten, and I rather not history repeat the same,” he spurned.

“How could I forget losing our first child? That’s the sort of thing you take to the grave!” you bellowed, tears freely tracing the curves of your flushing cheeks.

“It wasn’t our child yet,” he spoke so deeply that it hardly manifested into intelligible sound, fingers tightening around your upper arms. You feared his grip would crush you.

Silence ensued; a handful of seconds, or was it minutes...? You had forgotten how to count.

“I want a divorce.”

Why did those words come out of all things, you wondered. His hands fell to his side releasing you.

“Say something that makes sense,” he cursed your name.

The sound of skin meeting skin fell over your ears before the sting rippled through the palm of your right hand. It was as if a dry twig was cracked off its branch. The noise lingering over the space long after. His face snapped slightly in the opposite direction, not having expected the sudden assault.

He remained that way as if all of time had frozen over, blue eyes darkening.

Then, that long moment of silence which had felt unrelenting had passed, and your mind was suddenly drowned in chaos. The all too familiar embrace of an anxiety attack wrapped its arms around you, wrapping like a blood red scarf around your neck, asphyxiating you. Breathing grew laborious, impossible even, oxygen wasn’t reaching your lungs you were convinced. You fell forward, hand fisting around the lapel of your husband’s suit jacket.

“Terrible bastard. I can’t live like this, I won’t sign that...I didn’t go through all of the hell that I went through to have my childhood repeat. I won’t be caged in like that ever again...I can’t. I won’t!” You couldn’t be sure how much of your words made sense, if any did.

“Get a hold of yourself,” your husband implored, stabilizing you by your shoulders. His words fell on deaf ears.

“I won’t be another flower plucked and left here to die. I won’t be some woman who all she is, is a wife of a rich man, I won’t allow my identity to be reduced to that! I won’t wither away in a corner of a big old house, raising your children, do you understand me?” you screamed, your piping voice ripping across the space resembling tires screeching to a halt.

“This doesn’t even concern your other companies,” he began to say, struggling to hold you up against your thrashing.

You looked up with tear sodden cheeks, his alabaster complexion tainted with a pained expression. No, this man wasn’t capable of feeling pain, you convinced yourself, at least not over such trifling matters as his distraught wife. His expression likely conveyed something else. Something you weren’t cold blooded enough to comprehend.

“That’s how it starts,” you rasped, tone bordering madness, “and then before I know, you’re my only portal to the world.”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do,” he asserted through gritted teeth, “get a hold of yourself, you’re going to pass out holding your breath that way.” He swore your name once more, “Think of the child you’re carrying and pull yourself together.”

“I thought you were different, but in the end, you’re just another cold blooded tycoon. All you need is money and someone to sleep with.” You were chocking on air by now, feeling the hot blood thumping behind your ears. “All you are,” you managed, “is a terrible husband.”

His next words died against the blood coursing in your ears, and you could feel your body collapsing, consciousness fading to black.

...

Through a disoriented haze, you recalled conversation being exchanged. Your eyes being peeled open by a latex bound finger; a narrow light being shone in, a cold disk pressed against your silk blouse, then more conversation. You couldn’t be certain how much time had passed before footsteps led away.

You consciousness drowning in an endless pool of darkness again, you felt fingers combing through your hair...you were hallucinating, surely.

 

The darkness thinned away to the sound of a distant cannonade, bullets were raining outside your window, the car swerving out of control. The shatterproof glass had cracked like frozen spiderwebs, threatening to collapse. You were under the attack of some form of paroxysm convulsing your body, but no sound escaped. It felt like déjà vu, and you were certain you were reliving it, not recalling the memories. You could feel something slipping away, leaving you. Your head twisted to the side in time to witness the bullet gliding through the glass which no longer existed, only its shattered fragments laying over your lap, blood staining the hem of your hydrangea blue skirt.

You snapped to consciousness. The room was dimly lit, as it always was. You were trembling.

“I’m here,” you heard a hoarse voice from above you.

That’s right, you remembered, you had slapped him, the sickening bastard, though what was more aggravating, more ire inspiring, what was humiliating, was that you had called out for him as you escaped your nightmare.

Discarding his laptop against the nightstand, he leaned over you, his damp hair sticking to his forehand and carelessly falling into his ocean blue eyes. The loose navy sweater falling below his collarbones, while it looked displaced against his personality, suited him perfectly.

You felt tears spilling over your temples, growing cold against your ears.

You noticed as he pulled you up that he had changed you into your nightgown from earlier. The blush pink strap tangled against the black bra strap.

“I advised for the amendments to be disregarded,” he spoke gruffly before you could protest.

He wrapped his arms around your small form, your head resting under his chin.

“I see.”

“I had the resident physician check your condition. You fainted from vasovagal syncope. Your blood pressure dropped dangerously from stress. You need to get a grip of your temper if you’re intent on having this child.”

You scoffed, absently playing with the distressing details along the neck of his sweater, “You’re putting that on me? Maybe the baby’s father should stop testing my patience.”

“When you stop hitting me at your whim.” He was unmistakably exasperated.

“You set me up for that one.”

“Are you telling me you don’t regret it?”

“Would you like me to beg for forgiveness from your greatness?”

“Are you starting again?” he growled.

“Why bring up something I did in the heat of the moment?” you glared up at him. “Don’t control me like I’m some child.”

“Stop.” His voice travelled like ocean waves, bouncing off the walls. “I’ve had it with your attitude for one night.” You flinched, and he immediately regretted raising his voice, unbeknownst to you. The physician had insisted that he prevent you from experiencing as much overly stimulating episodes as possible. He allowed a few moments to lapse in silence. “It’s late. You haven’t had dinner.”

“I’m aware. Wouldn’t I know best whether or not I’ve had dinner?” you laughed sardonically. “Why state the obvious?”

He clenched his jaw, fighting to maintain his tone at a sensible pitch, “I told you to stop.” He exhaled. “What would you like for dinner?” he inquired, separating from you and stepping off the bed.

“I’m not hungry.”

“This again,” he sighed in annoyance, “Are you intent on testing me the whole night?”

You pouted, leaning back against the plush headboard, “This is when any other husband would kiss me and tell me they love me.”

“I’m not any other husband,” he stated blandly, irritation lining his words, “do you still not know who I am?”

If he wants to shoot down your olive branch and set your white flag on fire, fine.

“Order everything you can think of, and maybe I’ll like something enough to consider eating it.”

“You...really,” he cursed your name, running his fingers through his hair.

You merely raised an eyebrow in response. “I what?”

“I’ll order pizza if you behave yourself,” he offered.

You smirked, cocking your head to the side. “Do I look like twelve year old Mokuba? I’m the president of a multi-billion dollar conglomerate.” He remained unmoving. “Throw in sweet potato fries and sushi cones and you got a deal.”

“You’re exactly like him,” he declared flatly, reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

“I didn’t see any ice cream in the fridge,” you called out as he spoke to who you understood was Isono.

“Add ice cream to that list,” he advised, sounding hilariously unimpressed. “How would I know what flavours they have?” he then barked at the other end before disconnecting the line.

“Come here,” you called, having watched him fondly through the phone conversation, opening your arms wide.

He drew nearer to you though only to set his phone back on the nightstand beside you.

“What?” he inquired roughly, and your smile widened, motioning him closer. He wouldn’t comply. “You’re a mess, go have a shower.”

...

Drying the last damp wisps of hair where water had seeped into your roots while showering, you turned off the blow dryer, resting it against the marble sink.

Leaving the empty bedroom, you heard footsteps echoing in the distance, seemingly leading towards the main doors. You assumed Isono was here, and reaching the edge of the grand hall leading into the oval lobby, you discovered that indeed he was.

“Evening Mr. Kaiba,” he offered in greeting, clipped, just as your husband liked. “What you requested.” There was a soft rustle as bags, paper from what you could guess, were exchanged. “Is Mrs. Kaiba here?” you heard him inquire rather cautiously, and you immediately swung back behind the partitioning wall, pushing your back flat against the cool stone.

“No,” Seto spoke.

“We’ve located him as you requested. He looks to be a non-issue, though I had the investigators forward you the details, sir.”

Your hair stood on its ends like fine needles, a chill sweeping below your skin at the cryptic exchange.

Your husband hummed in understanding, “Don’t let my wife hear any of this. I will hold you directly responsible if she does.”

As the door closed, you sprung to life as if waking from a trance. Inhaling deeply a couple of times, you smoothed out your navy, slip nightgown. There was no sense in running, there were no nooks to take shelter in, so you walked forward, acting as if you only now coming to find him.

“Oh!” you chirped, putting your acting to good use, “the pizza’s already here?”

He studied your expression warily, eyes briefly narrowing in contemplation, before grunting in response, seemingly convinced by your act of ignorance, walking in the opposite direction of the dining room.

“Are we eating in the bedroom?” you asked, trailing after him.

“Put on something warm,” he ordered, lingering before the bedroom in the hallway leading into darkness.

Confused and curious at his request, you fished a long, black knitted cardigan from your luggage, before latching on to his side again.

Flicking a switch, the lights bathed the corridor in light, and he wordlessly continued forward. Following the sharply turning hallway by the far wall, the two of you stood before a gilded, glass stairwell. Lighting another series of floor lights leading up the steps, he ascended the staircase towards the metal door, you at his heel. Both his hands occupied by the paper bags slung through his fingers, he motioned for you to open the door.

Stepping through the doorway, a gentle breeze brushed your face, sweeping through your hair.

“Clap for the lights,” he advised, and in that moment of brief darkness, your eyes caught the dots of white burning faintly, as if particles of space dust against a navy canvas.

“There was a rooftop?” you questioned in disbelief, stunned by the white lanterns springing low off the ground, illuminating the garden.

He merely hummed.

The door closed behind him with a click, and suddenly the two of you were surrounded by a dome of brilliant indigo dusted with silver, the city glowing below glittering like jewels, drowning out the glory of the twinkling stars.

“I guess it’s true what they say, you really can’t see the stars in the middle of the city,” You heaved a sigh in disappointment, head falling towards the sky.

“You talk like you’ve never lived in a city...or a penthouse,” he drawled, heading towards the slate, cushion lined patio bench and coffee table, gravel crunching beneath his feet when he strayed from the paved walkways which curved all over the rooftop guarded by glass rails.

“You act all cool but you know how to be romantic,” you cooed, joining him on the bench, curling against his side, squealing slightly from the thrill of feeling the cold breeze grazing your skin.

“Stop spewing nonsense,” he groaned, unpacking the contents from the brown paper bags. “I thought you could use some fresh air.”

“Whatever,” you huffed, pecking his cheek, “I still love you.”

“Still?”

You hummed brightly as if in confirmation, before reaching for the smallest slice of pizza out of habit.

He slapped the slice out of your hands, clicking his tongue, “You’re eating for two,” he reminded shoving a larger slice into your hand.

“You know, if our baby gets both our tempers, we’re all screwed,” you tittered, leaning into him, folding your legs over the cushions.

“Having a temper is a twisted term for self-respect. Self-respect is needed for self-preservation. I expect my child to take after me in that way.”

He picked up a slice of pizza as he spoke, you slipping into his lap at the motion.

“You know my career is going to take a hit,” you spoke hesitantly after a while of consideration. “It’ll take a while to recover, my acting I mean, and even still... I’ll lose my title. The Nation’s Fairy can’t have children, it ruins the illusion, you know? And I don’t know the first thing about being a mother. Our stocks will go up though. Ten percent? Maybe twelve.” You heaved a burdened sigh.

“It’s a stupid title. You can stand to lose it. Your career is not dependent on acting, I assume you’re holding on to it for the sake of nostalgia or some similarly ridiculous sentiment,” he declared scathingly, continuing his onslaught, “You’re not the only one becoming a parent with this child. As for stocks, your projections sound accurate.”

“It’s different for you. You’ll be applauded by the nation for becoming a father. You’ll appear stable and matured. And you’ve raised Mokuba, you know what it’s like. I’ll be the actress who married a rich husband.”

“Are you not looking forward to the prospect of having children?” he suddenly inquired, tone having grown somber.

“No Seto, that’s not - I’m just scared.”

“I’m aware,”

“But that’s what I have you for I suppose.”

“I’ll be raising two kids,” he grumbled, forcing half a sushi cone against your lips.

“Do you get paternity leave as CEO?” you mumbled with your mouth full, peering up at him.

“Have you lost your mind?” he growled, opening a can of Pepsi.

“Ooh you’re allowing fizzy drinks too now?”

“It’s not for you,” he lifted it away, having taken a sip.

“Then you can take the baby to work when I’m busy,” you declared nonchalantly, watching his expression contort severely. “You can’t leave a newborn with maids.”

“What?” his voice was sandpaper against the smooth night air. You snatched the can while he was distracted, or rather, distraught.

“What?” you challenged, bringing the can to your lips, allowing the sparkling liquid to graze your throat, “I have the same job as you, I don’t have maternity leave either.”

“Stop drinking that, it’s not good for the baby,” he scolded, grappling the can back, ignoring your previous jab.

“The thought of you being a stay at home dad is strangely attractive though.”

“Did you hit your head in the shower?” he barked, the nerve below his eye twitching faintly.

Dinner passed with more idle conversation, words you never imagined you would have the opportunity to exchange so leisurely, at the very least, not being forced into this marriage. This was not the man you had grown up seeing on television and in the tabloids. This was not the man all those women fell for, as if struck by some incurable disease, not the man all your high school classmates swooned over in infatuation; they couldn’t have, because they’ve never witnessed this side of him.

“Are you sick again?” he inquired, checking your temperature with the back of his palm. You were stretched out over the bench, head resting against his lap, legs slung over the armrest. The fingers of his right hand were moving against your hair, yours wrapped around a carton of strawberry cheesecake ice cream, a plastic spoon pressed between your lips.

“Huh?”

“You’ve been staring at my face like that for a while.”

“Because you’re handsome,” you muttered absently.

Lips sharpening into a smirk, he chuckled, “Am I?”

“Anyway,” you cleared your throat, your words settling in. You lifted his left hand, bringing it against your stomach. “I suppose it’s a few months too early to feel anything, but this is what I’m looking forward to the most...to share with you.”

He offered a deep hum in response, holding his hand where you had placed it.

  
Minutes, perhaps hours passed wrapped in that comfortable silence, the two of you having slipped into a state of intimacy where you were content with merely listening to the sound of the other’s breathing, their silence.

 

“You know it looks like we’re wearing couple outfits?” you beamed eventually, observing how his navy sweater and black pants matched perfectly your navy nightgown and black cardigan.

“You notice the most ridiculous things.”

When had those words grown to sound endearing? You held up a spoonful of ice cream. He wordlessly closed his lips over the spoon.

“Do you not have anything that’s casual and less like this?” he questioned, plucking at the silk of your nightie.

“It’s not that I don’t have anything casual, it’s that I make everything I wear that much better looking,” you joked, looking up at the clear night sky speckled stingily with stars.  
  
“You have no sense of modesty.”

“Modesty is overrated. Besides you should meet my husband, I’d like to see what you would think of him.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Seto growled, unamused by your jibe.

You could only laugh out hysterically in response. The sound of your voice which was like a fine tuned instrument to his ears, carrying far into the star scattered night on the soft breeze.

Tonight you wouldn’t worry about what you and heard. Tonight, you would allow the wind to carry your anxiety as far as it could blow.

Thing always had a way of coming full circle, but tomorrow was a different day.


	23. Idiosyncrasies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this chapter was intended to include the next chapter, until this grew past 6400 words and I realized it grew to be too overwhelming. Also, I named the chapter what I did because I felt it explored too many things to have one cohesive title, and I thought the only overarching theme were the many idiosyncrasies that have come to define their relationship. Enjoy!

 

He watched you with a certain fondness concealed behind orbs of dark cerulean more brilliant than the sky arched over above. Your head falling to rest against his body, your ears flushed red from the chilling breeze stole the warmth radiating from him.

 

You offered him a smile, “I wish we could live alone like this, the mansion can be suffocating sometimes with all the maids and butlers and gardeners. I know you tell them to make themselves scarce but I mean they’re still there.”

 

“You have the strangest requests,” he remarked, watching over you curiously, while making a mental note to reduce the number of personnel serving at a time.

 

“I actually have a list of things,” you disclosed, and he scoffed.

 

“I know.”

 

There was derision in his manner, tone surely ready to brand each item on your list as childish or a trivial waste of time, and so you wouldn’t share it with him. He saw your eyes dull, and wondered if he had been too harsh in his delivery.

 

“What was it?” he attempted to recall, wanting to make amends, “holding hands, going to a fair…grocery shopping? You really are young.”

 

There was still a bias in his tone, plainly giving away what he ultimately made of these tasks.

 

“Yes,” you softly confirmed, “yes, that was a part of it.”

 

“There’s more?”

 

You hummed in response. His query wasn’t an invitation to divulge the remainder of your list, rather an expression of surprise that there was more to this frivolousness.

 

“I need to get back to work,” he eventually advised, and you scrambled to sit up, before straddling his lap. He growled your name as you looked at him with lips twisted into a pout.

 

“You’re going to work?” you continued to pout, “at three in the morning?”

 

“Yes,” he responded blandly, “I have some documents that need to be looked over before tomorrow’s meeting.”

 

“Come to bed,” you pleaded, knowing too well that had you been in his shoes, you wouldn’t be persuaded. You played with his fringe, intentionally dishevelling it. “I’m not feeling too well.”

 

“I don’t think it’s the kind of thing I can fix,” he smirked suggestively.

 

“Seto, come on,”

 

“You seem to have forgotten because I spend all this time with you,” he asserted, effortlessly rising to his feet while carrying you, “but I have a company to run.”

 

His composure remained unshaken by your incessant whining and protests, as he carried you to bed, insisting you sleep.

 

“You don’t need to tuck me in,” you laughed as he pulled the covers over you.

 

You couldn’t be sure when he came to bed that morning, if he in fact did.

 

The next few days passed much in the same manner; your husband spending all his hours immersed in his work, preferring to expend all his energy analyzing unending lines of code and the documents for finalizing the merger instead of exchanging anything beyond a few words in conversation, and even that involving work.

 

The distance grew to be unbearable, the silence piercing, and the mere thought of how many hours he spent alone with his assistant spurred resentment and paranoia.

 

Sitting in his study late the night before the flight, working on the final few clauses of the merger, as had become routine over the past week, you reached across the desk for him, seizing the fingers of his hand gliding across the keys of his computer.

 

He threw you a look of incredulity, as if disturbing the flow of his work was comparable to disrupting a satellite navigation algorithm of crucial importance; looking at you as if you had committed a crime. It was however, as you’ve learned, the only way to gain a moment of his attention; physically intervening.

 

“What?” he snapped, a little stronger than he had intended to, eyes flicking at you as if darts to a cork board. You flinched discernibly, though the grip on his hand remained unmoved.

 

“Are you even going to have time in your schedule for me tomorrow this way?”

 

“Likely not,” he responded blandly, eyes falling back to his screen, even as you held one of his hands captive.

 

“Are we...are we good?” you questioned with hesitance.

 

Blue eyes flickered fleetingly over your expression, clearly perplexed by the inquiry. “What does that mean?”

 

“It’s just that you haven’t been coming to bed lately and...have I made you mad in some way?”

 

“Have you given me reason to?”

 

You slammed your laptop closed pointedly, standing up to leave.

 

“Where are you going?” he bothered to inquire, though he continued to type.

 

“To sleep.”

 

“We are not done here,” he spurned the motion; “there are still details to iron out.”

 

It was evident that the accumulated deprivation of sleep over many nights was taking its toll on his attitude, and less discernibly on his health.

 

“This is as far as willing to negotiate this merger. You’re welcome to bring any amendments to the board meeting where I may or may not compromise. Good night Seto.”

 

“That’s not the sort of image I want to display of us in front of the directors,” he grit his teeth, irate cerulean eyes finally granting you their undivided attention.

 

“Whatever Seto, I want to be alone. You’re welcome to sleep here or in a guest bedroom,” you offered, before your voice dropped to a contemptuous whisper, mostly intended for yourself, “it’s not like you come to bed at night anymore anyway.”

 

“Why are you being such a child?”

 

“You have such a ridiculously high IQ, figure it out,” you snarled, snatching your laptop from his desk and turning on your heel.

 

“What it is it that you think I did this time?” he demanded in a sigh, leaning forward on his laced fingers, and you struggled to suppress the storm brewing in your chest, begging to be unleashed.

 

“Good night,” you clenched your jaw, striding across the study.

 

“Your hormones are going to drive me insane,” you heard him mutter, and you almost slipped, but you couldn’t spare the energy to pick that bone tonight you convinced yourself, disappearing from his study.

 

 

Discarding your silk robe over the foot of the bed, you settled under the sheets, drowning your attention in your phone for the sake of distraction. The bedroom door swung open unexpectedly, and your eyes flicked up to meet dark blue ones you were certain you had parted from for the night.

 

 

“I thought I told you I wanted to be alone,” you whispered, locking your phone quickly, hiding the stupid little list you had made in your notes, eyes trailing his approaching form around the bed. In hindsight, that list was a juvenile idea. As if he would have ever had anything positive to say of a childish bucket list. You had grown so fond of him that apparently you had expected too much of him; drawn an idealistic image of him in your mind. Seto would never even entertain the thought much less indulge you in following through with it. He was silent as he shed his navy robe over yours, pulling the silk comforter over himself. “What? I’m not even worth speaking to now?”

 

“Breakfast,” he husked, moving to lean over you on his side, “would you like to go out to breakfast with me tomorrow morning?”

 

You bit down on your lower lip, considering his offer. “I thought you had work.”

 

“I do.”

 

“Then what are you doing here?”

 

“If my wife would let me,” he spoke with irritation, “I would like an answer so I can sleep.”

 

Grudgingly, you allowed him to wrap an arm around you. He was careful not to allow any weight to fall over you.

 

“Clause thirty four,” he suddenly rasped, and you sharply interjected.

 

“I’m not negotiating that,” you rejected adamantly, “This is a glorified partnership not a traditional merger, I’m not disclosing all of our future research and development projects to your corporation. If there’s anything specific you need, you can ask me.”

 

He emitted a growl, low in his throat, “Those resources will be better utilized in my hands.”

 

You laughed cynically, “Yes I suppose you would think that. Though let’s not forget that I secured and restored this corporation to its former state and so I think I would know best how my resources should be utilized going forward.”

 

“That’s not what I meant.”

 

“I can’t read your mind.”

 

He muttered your name with certain exasperation under his breath, “You don’t know the first thing about programming and development.”

 

“No,” you agreed, “but my employees do, and now I’m merging with my know it all husband who does, so as projects come up, he can ask me for what I can offer. No one likes showing their full hand Seto.”

 

“Do you not trust me?” he demanded to know, eyes narrowing to slits.

 

“I trust you as my husband, with my life even, but in business, it was you who said that the decisions you make won’t always be in my best interest.”

 

“Are you sure you can’t be convinced otherwise?” he inquired, voice lowering.

“Is that why you’re bribing me with breakfast? Businessmen do all sorts of things apparently. I think I’m going to need a little more incentive than that.”

 

His lips curved into a smirk, his hand slipping under the light silk of your nightgown, grazing over skin which made your breath hitch. “You mean like this?”

 

“No,” you chortled, flustered by his breath tickling your neck as he buried his face in the crook of your shoulder.

 

His hand still fondling you, he cocked an eyebrow, “To which exactly?”

 

“Both,” you scolded playfully, wrestling his hand away from your chest. “Stop trying to seduce me into surrendering to your will and go to sleep.”

 

“I didn’t realize I needed an ulterior motive to sleep with my wife,” he retorted, lying back down beside you.

 

“Your wife, no, but to sleep with your business partner, you must have one.”

 

His chest rumbling with that throaty laugh that made you swoon, he gently pulled your back against his broad chest, having rolled you over.

 

Splaying his hand over your stomach, he whispered hoarsely in your ear, “Good night.”

 

You never fathomed a simple greeting could be so titillating. As his breaths evened out before yours, a small smile found its way to your face. You couldn’t be sure if it was possible to fall in love with one person this many times.

 

…

 

Late ten the next morning found you poised on unreasonably high crystal heeled Louboutins which while looked like a pink satin dream, more closely felt like torture devices. You could never understand your husband’s penchant for seeing you in high heels, and not that you were averse to them or hadn’t worn them regularly before, just his unrelenting demands insisting that you wear dangerously inclined footwear to match his height was bothersome. At some point the man needed to realize that you could be on stilts, and he would still resemble a lamppost standing beside you.

 

His arm around yours, he guided you through the glass doors of Isola, an establishment you were fondly familiar with, and it prompted you to wonder if he knew when he made the decision. You smoothed out your star scattered pink tulle dress which had fluttered prettily around your knees leaving the car, the wind having whisked the wispy layers up into the air.

 

The establishment was constructed entirely of glass, floor length ochre curtains cascading from the high ceilings with green foliage draped with golden fairy lights decorating the interior. Candle adorned crystal chandeliers hung over the space, surrounding the bridge of glass which was suspended from the black metal latticed ceiling, holding miscellaneous, glass apothecary jars over the centre of the space.

 

The host guided you to a high, dark wooded table, faced by leather bound chairs. Seto helped you step onto the counter height seat, before swinging around to sit across, his classic Burberry trench bellowing behind him. A pretty bouquet of white roses and chartreuse green buds sat on glass holders on the table.

 

Reaching across the table for your husband’s hand, you smiled. “Thank you for bringing me here, I love this place.”

 

“I’m aware,” he stoically declared, surprising you.

 

“Oh? How?”

 

“It’s not important how I know.”

 

“You know even though you’re good looking and rich, that’s still considered stalking,” you spoke humourlessly.

 

His eyes contorted into a glare, “It’s hardly the same thing.”

 

You laughed lightly, “Whatever you say.”

 

Breakfast progressed with light conversation, mostly concerning the merger, and while you listened intently, eyes cast down over your plate of ricotta pancakes sprinkled heavily with berries, his voice abruptly faded into silence.

 

Looking up... was he smiling?

 

“What?” you questioned, slightly disconcerted by the expression which never usually graced his features.

 

“You know you didn’t need to tell the waitress you were pregnant,” he smirked, recalling how you had excitedly indulged the young woman in the fact when she had offered the wine menu.

 

“She didn’t seem to know me, and I want her being careful with my food,” you reasoned, hands falling over your stomach, “for the sake of the baby.”

 

“Do you like it that much?” he chuckled, amused by your enthusiasm.

 

“So so much,” you told him, eyes gleaming.

 

…

 

That Friday morning was a celebration, and you could only find it in yourself to make such a remark in the most sardonic possible way. Directors from both your board along with Seto’s congregated along the hallways of Kaiba Corp, as if emulsified bubbles of fat, huddled together outside the boardroom, rejoicing the company of their own kind; the conceited bastards. You’ve never seen a group of directors so delighted and eager on both sides to complete a merger. The greedy leers on the faces of those old men – not that they were all old men – disgusted you. They were already counting the money in their heads.

 

Dressed in a black, one shouldered Victoria Beckham dress, fitted so exquisitely that it looked as if it were tailored to the contours of your body, with an asymmetrical neckline draping over the curve of your neck, and knee length skirt, your attire complimented your husband’s sharp black suit perfectly, his navy tie matching your navy hued, Chloé Nile bag.

 

His arm was around yours as you walked, though less out of newlywed affection as it may have appeared and more as a precaution given your condition earlier that morning, where you had found yourself hunched over the toilet, morning sickness finally rearing its ugly head in full force.

 

What was worse, the severe morning sickness was preventing you from eating sensibly, and in turn worsening your reflux, repeating the vicious cycle.

 

Seeing the herd of egotistical suits gathered ahead of you, their incessant buzzing caused your stomach to churn. Noticing your discomfort, Seto turned to you.

 

“There’s still twenty minutes before the meeting, go wait in my office. I’ll come get you when it’s time. You’re too good to fraternize with these snakes,” he husked, a deep scowl settling over his features as he glanced back towards the aforementioned _snakes_.  

 

“Swine,” you corrected, “they’re all swine.”

 

He smirked at your remark, before motioning you towards the elevator.

 

Stepping out of his personal elevator into his office, you tore the blue diamond choker he had bought you away from your neck. As fond of the piece as you were, it was suffocating you. Slipping the black patent, pointed toed, Jimmy Choo sling backs off your feet as you stumbled towards the sofa nestled against the far wall, you collapsed over the plush cushions, careful not to dishevel the low bun tied against the nape of your neck.

 

You began to wonder if Seto had a point when he insisted you take time away from work as your pregnancy progressed.

 

Hardly a few moments of you lounging had passed before the double doors of his office opened.

 

“Oh good, you’re here,” a familiar voice greeted you, though it was unmistakably underlined with resentment.

 

Your eyes meeting the deep charcoal ones, “Hey Mokuba,” you greeted the younger Kaiba.

 

“Don’t hey Mokuba me,” he bit back, his usual chipper disposition replaced with unwarranted – as far as you were concerned – anger.

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“Aren’t you a little too old to be tattling?”

 

“What on earth are you talking about?” you defended, baffled, clumsily struggling to sit up.

 

“I told you about my brother’s history and you go throw a fit to him claiming I told you everything? Why would you do that?” his voice like gravel against a metal bucket; grating against your eardrums.

 

“I-I’m sorry,” you managed to stutter, stunned to silence by the unexpected bombardment.

 

“Seto lost it because of you, going on about how I was corrupting his _young, innocent_ wife’s mind, worrying you needlessly.” His tone was dripping with sarcasm and ridicule. “Because of you, I haven’t spoken to my brother in weeks, I hope you’re happy.”

 

“You told me that his history with women was something I ought to ask him,” you challenged and he grimaced.

 

“There are ways to ask him that doesn’t involve throwing the person who told you under the bus,” he asserted, “it would also have helped if you didn’t go to him a crying mess!”

 

“Is that what he said?” you pressed, staggering to your feet.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I asked him how I knew Mokuba. I don’t know how Seto reacted but what was I supposed to tell him, that a little birdy told me?” you laughed derisively. “And what satisfaction would I gain from tearing you and your brother apart? Why did you even tell me? It’s slowly eating away at me too!”

 

The door swung open behind Mokuba, though neither of you noticed.

 

“I don’t know what your agenda is,” he spat your name, voice steadily increasing to a roar as he drew closer to tower over you, “and honestly I don’t care. I invested my trust in you as my sister, I welcomed you into the family, and this is how you pay me back?”

 

A hand clasped over Mokuba’s shoulder, white knuckles tearing him away from you. “Back off Mokuba,” Seto’s voice was a dangerous growl before descending to his usual husk, “she’s expecting.”

 

The younger Kaiba remained impassive for a moment, as if a lagging computer, and your eyes flickered past him to notice Seto’s assistant standing behind the two feuding brothers. She was impeccably dressed in an embroidered, seafoam hued, capelet dress which grazed her knee.

 

“She’s pregnant _again_?” Mokuba suddenly whirred back to life, his usual countenance returning to him. You winced at the emphasis he placed on ‘again,’ especially considering there was an extra pair of ears in the room you would rather have not indulged. “Just how often do you guys – wait, no,” he shook his head as if to rid himself of the mental image, “I don’t care.” He paused for another moment, seemingly in deep contemplation. “I’m sorry I startled you. Congratulations!” He reached to embrace you before you waved him off.

 

“This is a family matter,” you spoke stonily, looking directly past him, somewhat mortified and enraged that such a personal detail was disclosed to the unwelcome woman standing in the doorway. “See yourself out.”

 

“We’re all family here,” Mokuba shot back perplexed, seemingly unaware of the silent intruder.

 

“Watch what you say Mokuba,” Seto growled, probably wishing he could invent a filter to fix over his brother’s mouth.

 

Yukari excused herself, playing obedient unlike herself, offering a polite bow to the brothers before closing the doors behind her.

 

Your cold composure dissolved to tears behind closed doors, and both the brothers dove forward to pacify you, Mokuba reaching you first, wrapping an around you as he apologized profusely. Behind your hopeless sobbing, you missed the glare your husband shot his brother.

 

“No, please don’t cry,” Mokuba pleaded, “I’m sorry!”

 

Mokuba’s voice fell over deaf ears, each of his words deflected by your stubborn wall of self-blame and indignation.

 

A knock echoed from the door followed by a Yukari’s voice reminding Seto that the board directors were waiting.

 

“Pull yourself together,” your husband commanded plainly irritated, finally speaking, and it only stood to agitate you more. He clicked his tongue impatiently.

 

“You go ahead,” Mokuba offered his brother, “I’ll come down with her after calming her down.”

 

“I know her better,” your husband contested, insisting Mokuba leave first. “What you’re doing will never get through. I’ll take care of it.”

 

He turned to you as Mokuba disappeared behind the elevator doors.

 

Setting the coffee cup he had been clutching on the coffee table you were currently perched on, he tugged his dress pants up slightly as he kneeled before you, unconcealed exasperation in his eyes.

 

“Get your act together,” he scolded, “we both lost something. Are you the only one suffering?” His words once again were a stinging slap in your face. They afforded you a sensation similar to being frozen over, momentarily pausing your convulsing sobs. “What does it matter if my assistant found out? Who would believe her? I can and _will_ ruin her if she lets one word slip. Besides, it’s not as if you lost something you could never have, you’re expecting again. Pull yourself together and act up to your reputation. This is not the sort of behaviour I will accept from the mother of my children _or_ the CEO of the corporation I’m about to sign a merging agreement with. Do I make myself clear?”

 

Nodding meekly, you sniffled, “You’re really mean, you know that?”

 

“I don’t have time to give you a pep talk. I’ll give you five minutes to fix your makeup…where are your shoes?” he questioned incredulously. You looked over your shoulder in response, his eyes following yours to the spot on the floor where your heels were discarded. He could only sigh as he stood up.

 

 

 

Your arm around his again, he escorted you through the glass door of the boardroom overlooking the city of Domino. Your face concealed any traces of tears or distress, your composure restored to what it had been earlier that morning.

 

Walking to your seats at the head of the table, beside each other, the board directors rose from their seats to greet you both. Directors on either side of the table bowed deeply, almost mechanically; as was tradition you supposed, your vice-president and Mokuba included. They waited for you to assume your seats before following suit.

 

You had both agreed to finalize the ordeal discreetly, employing the necessary security to ensure journalists didn’t run amuck. A formal, carefully crafted, and heavily reviewed report would be released following the formation of the partnership, announcing the merger to the public.

 

As the terms and clauses were agreed upon by both parties prior to the meeting, there wasn’t much to be discussed.

 

Your hand wrapped around Seto’s coffee feeling another wave of nausea sweep through you just as the finalized contract was placed before you by his secretary, Aiko; two copies of the document bound in steel blue, leather files.   

 

“You’re not supposed to be drinking that” he muttered under his breath in objection.

 

“Seto please,” you sighed, “If I don’t drink this, I think I’m might be sick right here.”

 

“I can tell,” he drawled, though his eyes narrowed with what you hoped was concern.

 

Ignoring his snide remark, you took a sip, almost spitting it immediately out as the bitter sludge overwhelmed your palate before unwillingly swallowing it in an attempt to supress the rising bile.

 

You set the now lipstick smeared coffee cup before your husband again as a fountain pen was handed to you, the emcee behind the wooden podium in the opposite corner of the room briefly reviewing the clauses of the contract one final time for the members of the board.

 

Seto leaned over as the man drawled on, “Do you think you’ll make it?”

 

“I’m not a fortune teller,” you snapped inadvertently, your present discomfort translating to frustration.

 

Clicking his tongue as he spoke your name, he berated you for the unwarranted remark, and you tilted your head slightly, resting it against his upper arm, a motion while subtle, was not unnoticed by a few members of the board, as well as a particular assistant, despite their attention being drawn in the opposite direction of the two of you.

 

“Not here,” he strictly asserted once again, and you reluctantly straightened your back.

 

At the end of the reviewing period, the whole room fell momentarily into muted conversation, as they turned themselves to face the two of you once more, the whole space drowned by the soft rustling of suits at the simultaneous motion.

 

Your husband signed the contract laid out before him, while you signed yours, before exchanging the files and countersigning beside each other’s signatures, a practice which evoked memories of when you had signed your marriage contract, the thunderous clapping of the suits which followed strengthening the parallel. The room erupted into a cacophony of dull banging of chairs against desks and the susurrus of clothes as the room rose to their feet, along with clapping and words of congratulations being exchanged; fancy monkeys patting the backs of other fancy monkeys you mused. Your husband also stood, and you followed, accepting his outstretched hand in a formal handshake.

 

You smiled timidly looking up at him, though his blank expression remained unchanged.

 

As the room found order once again, the enthusiasm quietening, the chief of Seto’s board took it upon himself to offer formal congratulations, though much to your dismay, and you were sure your husband’s also, not for what you had expected.

 

“How wonderful it is,” he declared jubilantly, your eyebrow arching, immediately unsettled by the overly accommodating tone, “that there is more than one cause for celebration. On behalf of the board, I would like to offer our sincerest well wishes to Mrs. Kaiba, as well as our congratulations to Mr. Kaiba on their future heir. We look forward to the announcement of your marriage along with of course the arrival of the successor to both your empires.”

 

You watched nonplussed for a moment, before remembering that they had believed you to be pregnant for much longer than you actually was. Your eyes glanced over to appraise the reaction of your own board, who remained strangely unsurprised by the news, no doubt having learnt of the fact while gossiping with the Kaiba Corp. directors before the meeting.

 

Your own chief director concurred, and another round of congratulations was muttered. It was deeply disturbing, the feeling of being poised on a podium as if some prized livestock.

 

There were however, a few faces who reflected your own sullen expression on Seto’s board, a few suspicious glances exchanged in secrecy. One of those faces belonging to Kaoru, and whiles his discontentment you could comprehend, you wondered what the other’s problem was, after all, you were the one pressured to deliver an heir, or an heiress to a bloody empire.

 

Seto remained disconcertingly impassive through the whole circus, while Mokuba offered you an apologetic gaze, sensing your uneasiness from across the table.

 

As the meeting was adjourned, Seto whisked you out of the room, though not before the persistent board members poured out of the adjacent door, ambushing you in the corridoor, each insisting on a personal audience.

 

You received each of their greetings in your husband’s indifference, the last of the well-wishers being the youngest director with whom you had somewhat of an estranged relationship with. He offered the both of you a formal compliment with dull eyes, before parting to join the group of directors he had previously been in the company of.

 

You groaned internally, reminded of the celebratory gala that would be held that evening, which would surely be a tedious repetition of everything you were subjected to endure over the course of the morning.

 

…

 

“You know I hate about these events Seto?” you questioned your husband, who held an expression as dull as yours, possibly duller, as the two of you ascended the grand stairwell winding up from the marble paved lobby up to the banquet hall.

 

You were dressed in a blue Dior gown, the colour of the night sky, wispy tulle spangled in silver streaks of glitter emulating shooting stars; the countless layers falling unevenly, with the longest grazing the floor. Once again, your husband matched you, though whether it was intentional, or if the majority of his wardrobe consisted of some shade of blue was yet to be made certain. He wore a navy suit, his black tie complimenting the black straps of your dress.

 

“What?” he questioned, expecting some ridiculous yet witty response, having grown fond over the months of your cynical outlook on corporate functions, and ostentatious social interactions in general.

“Having to interact with morons who regard me a child and having nothing I can do to change their preconceived notions of me because they lack the sense and IQ to comprehend my insults. And this one specifically, I just feel that everyone sees this merger as you getting your way over a mutually respected agreement that we both decided on.”

 

That was a much heavier response than he had been anticipating. “What?”

 

“I mean, think about it. In their minds, especially your board, though not them exclusively, probably see this whole arrangement as you manipulating the child into handing over her company to you. And they’re ecstatic. Bonus points for producing an heir with the girl you married barely a few months into the arranged marriage.”

 

“It doesn’t matter what those old has-bins think,” he snarled, pulling you to stand outside the entrance, “I don’t see it that way.”

 

You avoided his scrutinizing gaze, nodding in concession.

 

He wrapped your arm around again, before motioning for the doorkeepers to hold open the gargantuan polished oak doors. The white gloved footmen drew the doors open by the heavily engraved brass handles and Seto led you in.

 

 

Walking into the hall, the function was ridiculous lavish as expected of a gala hosted by your husband’s corporation, and the fact that it was arranged in conjuncture with your company only added unnecessarily to the grandeur.

 

The ominous words, ‘I don’t want to be here,’ were the only coherent thoughts processing in your mind.

 

You found Mokuba at the bar, a few drinks already under his belt from how it appeared; Seto’s discontent growl of disapproval doing little to discourage the young vice-president from what you assumed was his mission to get black-out drunk ahead of the weekend. And who wouldn’t, after the odious morning you all were forced to experience. Had you not been expecting, perhaps you would have joined him.

 

“Oh by the way you guys,” he gushed, his face beginning to flush, “Have you met Atsuna yet?” He swivelled around on his barstool to face the young woman beside him, dressed in a soft, cherry blossom hued frock, light brown locks cascading in glossy curls past her shoulder blades. “You know my brother,” he addressed her, “and his wife.”

 

You almost contemplated correcting him, before concluding that they were both much too impaired by alcohol to pay mind to that detail.

 

You attempted to guess if that was romantic fondness lacing Mokuba’s voice.

 

The young woman, appearing to be no younger than you, giggled like a school girl, stepping off the barstool unsteadily, clasping her hands together shyly in front of her before bowing deeply towards your husband, her hair whipping forwards, then flying back again as she straightened up. You pondered if one could get whiplash from repeating that enough many times.

 

“Have we met before?” Seto narrowed his eyes in suspicion, cutting in before the girl could formally introduce herself.

 

“Atsuna Ashikaga,” she extended, and realization dawned over your husband’s face.

 

“Director Ashikaga’s daughter?” Seto requested clarification, and she eagerly nodded. “I figured as much. Mokuba, a word.”

 

Mokuba excused himself from the company of his, well, companion and sauntered after Seto, who insisted on pulling you along on his arm.

 

“You better not be sleeping with that woman,” Seto strongly rebuked, having guided the three of you to a private corner of the hall, skillfully evading invitations to join conversation.

 

“Relax big bro,” Mokuba mellifluously cooed obviously intoxicated, “it’s nothing like that. Though if I were to with someone, isn’t a board director’s daughter better than some commoner, like that last girl you asked me to stop seeing?”

 

“Well are you seeing her?” Seto demanded sonorously.

 

Mokuba rubbed the back of his head sheepishly, feet shuffling awkwardly, “We’re not quite there yet.”

 

“Not with that man’s daughter,” Seto spat as if disgusted.

 

The dark haired young man offered an ambiguous hum, eyes fallen over his immaculately polished dress shoes, before floating back off into the crowd.

 

 

Then began the war, or perhaps it was better dubbed as the plague; the plague of the unending flood of board executives, rushing to greet you and Seto from all sides, the clamour of the sum of their voices an assault on your senses as they flagrantly gathered to suck up - for a lack of a civilized term with the required efficacy to describe the act - surely wanting to be remembered as members that were present during the foundation of the merger.

 

There were a great number of questions relating to your pregnancy; how far along you were, if you were far along enough to know the gender, if either of you had a preference. Most of the inquisitiveness springing from Seto’s board members, though yours also had a few curious questions.

 

The party has been careful enough to leave their wives and other family that had accompanied them to the event at a distance, so as to not violate the non-disclosure agreement.

 

Seto received the majority of the questions, his scowl growing with each one, though really the ones you elected to answer required only yes or no responses.

 

“It’s quite unexpected,” an older member droned, “that the two of you were able to conceive an heir so early into your marriage, given the circumstances on which you married.”

 

An awkward silence set over the circle of directors, though the gleam in their eyes read curiosity, as they depravedly hoped that you would let slip a morsel of information of your lives behind closed, bedroom doors.

 

“It’s not very unexpected,” you disagreed coldly, the thought of divulging such information curdling your blood, “he is my husband.”

 

“Yes of course, I suppose things of that nature could happen between spouses,” he responded, an unsettling grin finding his lips. “I just meant that you must have been busy.”

 

Your eye twitched, a round of forced laughter accompanying the impertinent remark.

 

_The pervert._

“Are you drunk Homura?” Seto interjected, his severe tone causing everyone to flinch. The topic of conversation soon fell away to the future of the partnership.

 

_You were too tired for this shit._

 

This was promising to be a long night.

 

…

 

Trudging rather ungracefully, and collapsing into the passenger’s side of the car, you slumped against the seat, kicking off your space grey heels. Reaching into the backseat, you sought the pair of trainers you had brought.

 

Sliding into the seat beside you as you laced up your shoes, Seto gave you a puzzled look, as if questioning your sudden change in wardrobe.

“My back hurts these days,” you explained, “so I brought something to change into.” He grunted in understanding. “Also, I’m craving chocolate cake.”

 

He turned to you incredulously as he reversed the car, “We just had dinner.”

 

“So what, I’m hungry. There’s this cheesecake place that’s open till two in the morning, I heard they have the best cake.”

 

“And you want to go now?” he growled, though he supposed it was good news that his wife was willing and actually able to eat something. “Fine,” he responded before you could answer, steering the vehicle sharply in the opposite direction.

 

Arriving at the eccentrically decorated establishment, intending to replicate a futuristic seventy’s milkshake café you were convinced, you were pleased at the lack of patrons. Obviously, no one craved cheesecake at ten past midnight.

 

Settling into the brown leather tufted booth, you waited for the waiter to leave after handing you the menus to careen around the table to huddle against your husband.

 

“What are you doing?” he cursed, as he often did when he found himself on the receiving end of your spontaneity.

 

“Don’t play hard to get,” you teased, draping his arm over your shoulder. He didn’t resist.

 

“I’m not playing anything,” he growled again, as you turned the first page of the menu.

 

Ordering a slice of double chocolate and hazelnut cake and strawberry cheesecake for yourself, and a dark chocolate mousse cake for Seto despite his adamant protests, you also added a raspberry pavlova milkshake to the end of your order, having discovered that they also offered a collection of eclectic concoctions of beverages.

Waiting for your order, you turned to your husband, appearing to be in deep thought.

 

“Mokuba seemed happy,” you began cautiously, “…with her. Why don’t you like her? I mean she seemed like a fine young lady. I don’t see a problem with someone of her background joining this family. Do you plan to arrange a marriage for your brother they way you did for yourself?”

 

“It’s not her, it’s her father,” your husband apprised bitterly, “The man’s a snake.”

 

“Anyone with a background good enough to join this family will be a snake. No one marries for business without ulterior motives.”

 

“You didn’t have ulterior motives,” Seto pointed out.

 

“You didn’t give me much of a choice. I married you because you backed me up into a corner. He won’t be happy if you control him that way.”

 

“You say you’re happy.”

 

“Not everyone could hope to be so lucky,” you mumbled as the waiter set out the cakes and the milkshake poured into an apothecary jar inspired glass. “Besides, she seemed like a sweet girl. I wouldn’t mind having another girl in this family.”

 

“Marrying a Kaiba is like winning a lottery, the world isn’t rainbows and girl scout cookies like you think it is,” Seto declared cynically, and you snorted.

 

“Are you telling me I won the lottery?”

 

He peered down at you grimly, “I’m telling you I have a bad feeling about this.”

 

 

 

 


	24. Sixth Sense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure what everyone makes of the direction the story is going in, and I have nothing to say for myself for how this one ended. I wish I could say hold your anger till the next chapter...but I got nothing, so. Enjoy!
> 
> Edit: Hoping a certain someone did well on their exam! Uploading this early for you :)

 

Seto’s relationship with mutual respect was a fascinating dynamic, and it had always been such a thrilling source of entertainment, until you were subjected to be on the receiving end of it. To quote a movie you had watched a few years ago, ‘Everyone’s relationship with Seto Kaiba was built on a podium of mutual respect; everyone respected him, and he respected that.’ In short, he couldn’t define the concept to save his life, and it was exactly this stubborn arrogance that was currently forcing your hand to deal a bullet to his ego, in the presence of a full board of directors.

 

The weekend had passed by as they usually did; both your husband and you hauled up in his office, mapping project designs for games that would be launched under the partnership. You had found common ground on most concepts…except for one; the one currently in contention in the audience of a full board.

 

"I'm opposed to it," you objected, finding it absurd that he had had the audacity to propose the project in spite of what you had discussed, though you really shouldn’t have been. Seto’s board members were mere instruments serving no greater purpose besides giving his corporation the illusion of democracy when ultimately, only his opinion mattered. 

 

"Your personal preference isn’t an acceptable reason for opposition," your husband growled from the other end of the boardroom.

 

“This had nothing to do with my personal preference,” you contested, “You're targeting such a niche audience and therefore automatically limiting profit projections. Duel Monsters isn’t as popular as it used to be. I mean you'll be alienating the UK, most of Europe, all of South America, a greater part of North America considering Canada doesn't care for it as far as I'm concerned - correct me if I'm wrong - and within Asia, you're looking mostly at East Asia, and even still only Japan, a small portion of South Korea, China and that's actually it, need I go on?"

 

"I didn't realize you had such an interest in the game," he spoke through gritted teeth.

 

"My husband is the reigning champion, I thought I should take an interest," you flashed him a smile, though you were certain your derisive undertone was not missed, at least not by Seto.

 

Of course, he wasn't the reigning champion, and you knew that, but you didn't think he would appreciate that deep a jab at his ego.

 

The boardroom watched in silence as the two of you debated fiercely, Seto unwaveringly defending his beloved game.

 

"We are limiting ourselves with this game,” you repeated, “We are looking at what? One percent? Total sales of this game will account for maybe - and I'm being optimistic here - _maybe_ one percent of our corporations' total revenue for the quarter of its release. It's release, Seto! That's pretty brutal," you analyzed, perhaps a degree too severely, "we will be solely relying on the US, Japan and China for sales. That's a dismal target audience, even considering the populations of these countries."

 

"Your verdict?" He returned your icy tone.

 

"Kodama will not invest in something that has such high possibility of making a loss."

 

"You're being unreasonable,” he argued.

 

"How so Mr. Kaiba, have I left anything to be desired in my analysis of why this game will fail in the market?"

 

"Mrs. Kaiba," he roared. You could feel your chest tighten at how he used his name to address you. "I don't make failing projections. A powerful marketing campaign can and _will_ revive interest.”

 

“Do you think it can do that, Kaoru?” you turned sarcastically to his marketing director, who remained nonplussed for a moment, having abruptly gained undesired attention.

 

“It…uhm,” he stammered, either honestly stumped for an answer, or hesitant to become the subject of your husband’s wrath.

 

“Don’t undermine my authority,” Seto thundered, and you could practically see a sheet of ice freeze over the room.

 

“Seto,” you sighed, hoping to appease his rage, “you’re suggesting we use Duel Monsters as the base _and_ reward system for a worldwide MMORPG. Learning that game is not like learning scrabble, or even chess, the gameplay requires months to learn, years to master. It will alienate so many people.”

 

“Or it will gain interest and become the obsession of a new generation,” he reasoned.

 

“No one has that kind of time.”

 

“Are you calling the game a waste of time?” he snarled dangerously, and you recoiled. “No one should be buying Kaiba Corp. games if they don’t care for Duel Monsters.”

 

You closed your eyes shut. Your words weren’t reaching him. “That’s not what I meant.”

 

“You guys,” Mokuba spoke up, and everyone’s eyes drifted to the large screen mounted against the side of the board room, where he had joined you from Tokyo via video. “Seto, she has a point, but then again so does he,” Mokuba addressed you, “Can’t you both find some way to compromise. If you two keep going at it like this, we’ll be here forever.”

 

“I can’t compromise with someone who has no zero interest in pursuing the game,” Seto rejected the motion.

 

Pursing your lips to keep yourself from biting back, you mulled over your words before suggesting them, “Why don’t we adapt a simpler version of the game? No complex summoning rituals or complications.”

 

“That sucks the soul from the game,” he spurned, before pausing to consider, “We can program those in to higher levels of the game.”

 

“Fine,” you conceded, though reluctantly, as Mokuba cheered in the background.

 

You held his deep azure gaze for another moment from your seat across the room before gathering your files and announcing your departure.

 

“If anyone needs me, feel free to email,” you extended as you stood, to the board members who had not received an opportunity to offer their input, though again, not that it mattered in the face of your husband’s infinite wisdom.

 

…

 

You had to fly to Seoul for the first script reading and wardrobe fitting later that morning, and given your condition, Seto had insisted you fly back the same day.

 

At the conclusion of the script reading that had consumed a greater part of the afternoon, you returned to the apartment you had bought in Lotte Tower, intending to rest as you had no other schedules for the evening.

 

The combined exhaustion from the added pressure of the merger, as well preparing for a new drama shooting and the strain your pregnancy placed on your body must have caused you to fall asleep unwittingly, because you woke up to a dark room, roused by the mechanical melody of your front door unlocking. The only source of light was the city lights faintly pouring through the wall of glass across from you.

You realized you were still dressed in the same white crepe dress you had worn that morning, the dark sapphire blue stones sewn against the neckline having somehow left an impression on your left cheek from how you had slept.

 

Your ears perked at the sound of approaching footsteps. You were petrified by the darkness, but more so of the stranger on the other side of the open door. You held your breath, sitting up on the bed, concerned that movement would notify the intruder of your presence. Distantly you also wondered how a residence with such an elaborate security system had been breached, and who would, and most importantly with what motivation? That last thought frightened you the most.

 

Your thoughts couldn’t seem to process anything besides how you just wanted your husband to magically appear in that moment. You had no gun, no weapon to defend yourself. You were much too shaken to cry, in spite of the soft trembling against the inner corners of your eyes.

 

Your hands gripped the sheets, wondering how heavily your footsteps would weigh against the carpet if you crept to your bedroom door to close and secure the lock. You could hear the blood pounding in your ears, that soft trembling had spread like a virus to encompass your whole body.

 

It was when the familiar voice calling your name fell over your ears that you finally remembered to breath. You hadn’t realized you had been holding your breath, utterly traumatized.

 

You reached for the nightstand, twisting the dial of your bedside lamp, fingers still quivering as adrenaline rushed through your fingertips.

 

Your husband stood in the doorway as the soft lamp light spread through the room.

 

“Jesus Seto, you scared me!” you yelled, stumbling over yourself as you attempted to climb off the bed. He walked towards you, and having caught yourself, you leaped into his arms, tears finally falling freely. “I could have lost the baby!”

 

“I thought I told you I wanted you home by evening,” he reproached, though returning your embrace. “It’s now almost eight. I couldn’t reach your phone, where the hell were you?”

 

“I fell asleep,” you admitted embarrassed, and he heaved a sigh.

 

“I was worried,” he spoke lowly, breaking a chill through you. “Do you have any idea what was running through my head on my way here?”

 

 “You flew all the way here to pick me up?” you questioned in incredulity, and he grunted.

 

He stood that way with you, immersed in complete silence, looking over you at the magnificent Seoul sky line, before informing you that he had a chopper waiting upstairs, and advising you to gather your things so he could fly you back home.

 

…

 

It was past eleven when you arrived at the mansion. Seto hadn’t spoken a word since leaving Seoul, though you made nothing of it, assuming his attention was too heavily invested in manning the helicopter.  

 

Walking into the bedroom, he shed his suit jacket carelessly over an arm chair, traipsing towards the bed while cracking at the kinks in his neck to relieve the stiffness.

 

Following after him, you wrapped your arms around him, hugging him from behind. You could sense him stiffen. Again, you made nothing of it, stepping around to face him, while maintaining your embrace. Poising yourself on the tips of your toes despite your heels, you placed your lips over his, pulling him forward by his loosened tie. He obliged, mechanically leaning into you. Rolling your lips over his, you could feel the absence of a response. Opening your eyes, you found brilliant yet cold pools of blue staring back. Disconcerted, you parted from him, face surely reading disappointment.

 

“I have to work,” he advised without a trace of emotion in his voice. You blinked, once, and again, attempting to form a response, or rather a question, ‘why are you acting like this,’ would have been sufficient, if you could vocalize it. Placing his hands over both your shoulders, he pushed you away from him. “I’ll have a maid bring you something to eat. Then get some sleep,” he ordered.

 

You craved the warmth of his palms against your bare shoulders, the touch of his fingertips. You craved that warmth, elsewhere, everywhere, on your bare skin.

 

You could only smile with disbelief. “You know what I want don’t you?”

 

“Yes, and I have to work,” he asserted firmly, “I have a program to re-write.”

 

“The one your programmer corrupted.”

 

“Yes.”

 

And with that, he was gone. You merely sat there, over cold sheets, watching blankly the spot where he had stood.

 

Had you offended him this morning somehow?

 

…

 

Returning to the bedroom, you could immediately feel his steel gaze over you, the silver comforter draped over your lower half. He strode wordlessly towards the open French windows past the bed, the white drapes catching the wind.

 

Closing the windows, he looked at you over his shoulder, “It’s past two in the morning, why are you up?” His tone held authority. Your eyes snapped up to meet his,

 

“Hmm? Oh, I was looking at a bridal magazine. I figured I should find a dress if we’re holding our wedding at the end of summer. There’s so much to do you know?”

 

He returned a dull hum in response, sliding into bed beside you, setting his phone over the nightstand. You tossed the bridal magazine over yours, turning to him eagerly.

 

“Do you have time for me now?” you inquired mellifluously, leaning over him, caging him between your arms, having dismissed his earlier behaviour as stress. Smiling adoringly, you allowed the strap of your silk camisole to slip.

 

“It’s two a. m in the morning, I have a meeting early,” he again denied you, drawing the loose strap back over your shoulder. His expression conveyed his resolve, that his words were final.

 

Feeling a heaviness weighing against your chest, you fell back, collapsing beside him. Still, you nestled against him, resting your head against his shoulder. He outstretched his arm under you. Once again, there was an unmistakably reluctance.

 

“You know,” you cooed, “I’ve been craving a lot of sweet things lately, I think that means you’re getting a daughter.”

 

“That’s an old wives’ tale,” he dismissed gruffly, bringing his other arm over his eyes.

 

“No, Seto, I’m pretty sure. I have pretty severe morning sickness too. Speaking of though,” you told him, “I think we’re out of frozen yoghurt, I didn’t see any in the fridge.”

 

“Did you tell the kitchen staff?”

 

“No,” you began to say, before he interrupted.

 

“I’ll let them know tomorrow morning.”

 

“No, Seto, I was thinking we could go grocery shopping sometime this week, together,” you offered hopefully, peering up to gage his reaction. He remained upsettingly impassive.

 

“I’m much too busy for something so pointless. That’s what we have help for,” he stonily disputed. “Is this from that ridiculous list of yours again? Grow up.”

 

“It is,” you choked, biting back tears as you slipped away from him, turning to face the door on the distant wall, muttering, “Who can’t compartmentalize work from their personal life.”

 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he barked, leaning over you from behind.

 

“Nothing,” you wiped away the tears which stubbornly fell.

 

“That has nothing to with this,” he affirmed sternly.

 

“What _is this_ Seto?” you demanded to know, “Why are you like this?”

 

He let out a low growl, “Fine.” Turning you on your back he tore of his shirt, discarding it over the edge of the bed somewhere, “I’ll give you what you want,” he snarled irascibly, repulsion lacing his tone, as if you weren’t even worth having. He circled your wrist with a crushing grip, forcing your palm to close over his groin with a strained grunt. One hand forcing you to continuously massage him, his other hand reached for your pajama blouse.

 

Plain terror read in your eyes, though he wasn’t discouraged. “Seto, no, stop this,” you pleaded, frightened by his ruthless performance. “I’m sorry, you’re going to hurt the baby, please,” you sobbed, “I’m so sorry.”

 

He seemed to freeze for a moment, before recalibrating, and then he released you. Falling away from you, he collapsed by your side.

 

He must have lost his mind for a moment, he thought, to have done that to you. You weren’t asking for anything unreasonable.

 

He waited until he was certain you had fallen asleep, guessing from how your breathing slowed, and evened, to hold you. He careful slipped his hand over your stomach, as you had done that one night, shifting across the mattress to press his chest against your curved back, surrounding you.

 

Except, you weren’t asleep, and you could feel the warmth of his palm radiating against your bare skin where your camisole had slipped, riding up. You could feel the dull thud of his heartbeat against your shoulder blade, before it reverberated through your entire body; his even pulse soothing you to sleep.

 

…

 

You woke up in a cold sweat, escaping a nightmare to cold sheets; Seto had already left. You had died in your dream; you had never died before in your dreams. It felt real; the fragments of the dream did not slip away, erased by dawn or the awakening of your consciousness, the gruesome details remained vivid, etched into the back of your eyes.

 

Slipping on a pair of pink Louboutin stilettos accented by pretty little black bows over the front, and a blush silk peasant dress with puffed sleeves gathered with bows just above the elbow, and two slits opening the skirt at the front, you sprinted from the room, feeling an ominous chill creeping into you the longer you remained there alone.

 

Narrowly missing a passing maid as you flashed out of the bedroom door, you apologized, completely out of your mind.

 

…

 

Having driven to Kaiba Corp. you waited in your husband’s office alone for him to return from a meeting, as you were advised. Brought to attention by the ringing of the elevator bells, you stood up, as Seto stepped out from behind the withdrawing metal doors.

 

He appeared mildly surprised to see you, though the emotion had been so fleeting, you were beginning to doubt if it had ever existed. His unreadable mask was much more unexpected than the brief surprise you had witnessed. After all, you had no reason to be here.

 

You had forgotten how cold he could be.

 

“I brought you the files for the MMORPG programs,” you extended your laptop, “I have no idea how to extract the files and send them to you,” you lied.

 

“You could have gotten your programming department to do it,” he noted flatly, “or given this to me at home.”

 

“I realize,” you mumbled.

 

“Come here,” he ordered, and foolish optimism and yearning for a morsel of his affection intoxicating your rational mind, you walked around his desk. He turned to face you. You should have read his expression more closely. “Kneel,” he demanded as you stepped closer to him.

 

You stopped dead in your tracks, the stupid smile falling from your face. Foolish child, what had you expected?

 

“We’re doing this again?” you spoke in a hoarse whisper, tone thinly veiling welling tears.

“What’s the matter?” he inquired darkly, hand gripping your wrist so tightly you feared your bones would snap. “You wanted it so much last night.”

 

“I’m not some depraved whore Seto,” you defended yourself incensed, “I’m not always ready and willing to submit to your sexual frustrations.”

 

“Could have fooled me,” he drawled and your right hand flew into the air to avenge your insulted honour. His arm shot up in response, catching your wrist with a hold just as crushing, if not more. “I told you not to do that,” he growled threateningly, rising to his feet to tower menacingly over you. You flinched, though held captive by both his hands, you could not cower.

 

Crushing you under the weight of that terrorizing gaze for a moment longer, as if to somehow stress his words, he released you, and you immediately rubbed your throbbing wrists, before snatching at the strap of your bag draped over the far sofa, and vanishing from his office.

 

…

Human intuition was indescribable, it was accurate, it was beyond our realm of comprehension, and so it was frightening. A sense of clairvoyance lingered about you as you returned to your office that afternoon. You couldn’t be sure if it was the remnants of your nightmare, or the news you had been delivered, or the unsettling statistical fact in combination with the delusional ramblings of own your mind creating that sensation of surrealism. You would bet on the latter. Had your dream been a harbinger?

 

You weren’t afraid of death; it was only eerie that it was growing to feel like an old friend. If you had returned to your desk to find a bouquet of purple flowers, you would have, at least in that moment, laughed.

 

You were urged to write, and sitting behind your desk, you did. There was so much to say and yet only tears kept falling. They blurred your vision, and they blurred the ink, running like cold blue streams over a frozen landscape.

 

You could hear footsteps on the other side of your door moments before it swung open. You lifted the welling tears with your forefingers, slamming a binder over your open letter.

 

Your husband appeared through the doorway, before marching purposefully across your office, loosening the navy tie of his white suit as he did. You walked around your desk to greet him.

 

He threw his tablet at you, “What the hell is this?” he demanded to know, obviously outraged, though by what, you couldn’t begin to imagine.

 

You hesitated for a moment as the screen of his tablet rotated, before appraising the contents.

 

“My Dolce and Gabbana campaign,” you observed, “what’s wrong with it. I’m fully clothed as I’m sure you can tell, just like you wanted. What’s the problem here?”

 

“The problem,” he barked, stabbing the video flashing across the screen with his index finger, “is that you’re sucking some model’s face.”

 

You released a scoff of indignation, “Seto, it’s a perfume campaign. It has to be sensual somehow. If I’m not dressed for the part, I have to act the part. Yes, I’m kissing him. I’m an actress; do you realize how many guys I’ve kissed on screen? It may look dark and private here but this happened in front of forty people in a room under sweltering hot strode lights and reflectors, there’s nothing remotely intimate about that.”

 

“Yes, I realize,” he hissed, “but this is not kissing someone, he’s eating your face. I will _not_ have my woman portrayed like this.”

 

“I’m not your possession, to remind you again, and I signed the contract before I married you. This may be my last campaign Seto, given my pregnancy. Stop overreacting.”

 

Those words set him off, as if you had flicked some bizarre Jekyll and Hyde switch in him.

 

“Overreacting?” he thundered, “I would prefer my wife not being a whore!”

 

The chain reaction finally burned through you, his anger sparking yours, “You keep calling me that! Stop calling me that. The term whore implies that I’ve opened my legs up to other men, which I haven’t. I’m pregnant with your child for god’s sake Seto; could you give me some respect? You have no idea what kind of day I’ve been having, and you just stroll in here and kill me a little more. It’s just a campaign, it’s my profession – ”

 

“This is not your profession,” he interrupted and you released a piping scream, plucking your calendar off your desk and chucking it at him. It met his chest with a rustle, before tumbling to the ground.

 

“It’s. Just. A. Stupid. Ad,” you stressed every word, “You know what I did all afternoon? I went to the gynecologist, to see if _our_ baby is doing well, then I came here, and wasted my whole day drawing all over that stupid calendar. Those dates, I wanted to share these things with you Seto, but you’re too busy tearing down my character, how could you?” your voice descended to a muffled sob.

 

“I don’t recall asking you to do any of that,” he snarled, “And _this_ will not be promoted in Asia, I have a reputation to uphold.”

 

Your head fell up to the ceiling, pulling at your hair as he stomped out of your office, depriving you of the chance to speak another word.

 

You wondered if he knew how lonely he made you feel, and more frighteningly, if he cared.

 

…

 

The midsummer heat was yielding to the cold breath of late evening, and you could hear the hum of the wind, first weaving through the pine needles, then the full leaves pouring forth from the old oaks beyond the balcony, rustling them softly, emulating grains of rice pouring through a rainmaker, before greeting you with the scent of blossoming magnolias at your open window.

 

The shadow like image of the white drapes being whisked into the air by the wind played in your peripheral as you drifted in and out of sleep. The gentle breeze was caressing your cheeks, so why then you wondered, did sweat bead like glass pearls over your forehead, trickling to gather between you clavicles.

 

Unconsciously you were waiting for him, watching the door, unable to discern that the discomfort was intensified by the hot embrace of the comforter.  You had waited for him to get home since five that evening, overcome with a sensation of dizziness that had forced you to leave your office early.

 

You didn’t know why, but you were convinced that as cross as he may have been with you, that somehow, he would be able to alleviate your all-encompassing pain.

 

He strode through the door, dropping his briefcase and loosening his tie before discarding it over a chair. Brows furrowing and expression contorting as he observed your pallid complexion, he sat over the edge of the bed, looking over you.

 

Resting the back of his hand over your forehead, he hissed under his breath, “You’re burning up. This can’t be good for you or the baby. Get up, I’m taking you to the hospital.”

 

“I’ll be fine, you’re here,” you rambled in delirium.

 

“Nonsense,” he dismissed, slipping his hands under the crook of your shoulder, lifting you to sit. You fell forward, wrapping your arms around him. “What are you doing?”

 

“I was so afraid you would leave me Seto,” you babbled in confession, “I thought you weren’t going to come home. I’ll do better, I’ll be good, I promise.”

 

“What one earth are you on about?” he groaned, lifting you with him as he stood, wrapping your legs around his waist. “The fever must be getting to your head.”

 

…

 

Carrying you to the car, he settled you against the passenger seat. Draping his trench coat over you, he secured the seat belt across your chest before sharply closing the door.

 

He took to silently driving the vehicle, the whirr of the tires as they glided over the empty roads always in the background.

 

“What did the gynecologist say?” he asked, the concern in his tone too elusive for you to hear.

 

“Nothing concerning,” you lied.

 

“The baby will be fine?”

 

“It’s too early to tell until the first screening, but yes, she couldn’t find any complications with the baby.”

 

“I see.” There was a long stretch of silence. “What I said this afternoon,” he eventually spoke in a husk, “you need to watch your reputation more closely, you’ll soon have a child to think about.”

 

Closing your eyes, you responded, “There’s nothing wrong with my reputation.”

 

“You really want to insist that after the campaign you just released.”

 

“I didn’t think you were this conservative,” you retorted.

 

“I’m not,” he insisted, and you missed the subtle undertone of jealousy.

 

“It’s a piece I’m proud of,” you maintained, “and it’s receiving positive feedback from the fans and I heard it’s driving sales. So –”

 

“I don’t care,” he sonorously rumbled, “We discussed this, and I assumed you understood my warning.”

 

His gaze was beginning to stray from the road, first for a moment, then a handful of seconds, until you had gained the unbroken attention of blue eyes smouldering with unconcealed ire.

 

“What warning?” you snapped, “I’m not your ward!”

 

He motioned to defend his stance, but before any words had left him, you were drowned in a blinding white light. For a moment you wondered if day had broken again. Squinting your eyes, you looked ahead as the light seemed to waver, to find a towering bowser, white from how it appeared - though your stunned light cones were painting everything around you in a colourless pallet so you couldn’t be certain – swerving over the lane divider, moving erratically.

 

“Seto that thing is coming right for us,” you managed, gripping his arm, feeling your chest tighten, mind simulating a cardiac arrest before it had even made impact.

 

“I know,” Seto grit his teeth. Left to his own devices, he would calculate in your favour, at the peril of his.

 

It was this single thought which processed in your mind in that moment, as you reached for the steering wheel, sharply turning his side of the car away from the runaway bowser. The vehicle spun as if a spinning top.

 

In your peripheral, you registered the white stream of light passing you, though in your current trajectory, you couldn’t be certain which way was forward.

 

Suddenly all movement came to a standstill, and glass rained over you. The grim twisting of metal, as if human bone was being twisted echoed, and you could taste metal on your tongue; iron. There was a coldness seeping from you, something spilling from your eyes. You couldn’t get warm.   

 

You heard your name being called, and then absolute darkness.

 

Indeed, human intuition was a frightening thing.

 

…

 

There was an unbroken sequence of beeping. You woke up to the same darkness you had closed your eyes to, except, you didn’t remember closing your eyes. Naturally, your mind began to search for a memory to hold on to. The last one it could remember, a point in time for your existence to continue onwards from. You were left with a crippling headache, an empty thought, as if one night’s dream at dawn.

 

Your mind grew aware of the steady puffs of steam erupting from the humidifier by your bedside, like smoke rising from a chimney in winter, before dissipating over the hospital room.

You tore away your oxygen mask.

 

Why were you here?

 

Attempting to sit up, you found yourself weighed down by a figure leaned over your thighs. It was difficult to discern the identity of the slightly dishevelled, sleeping young man in the dimly lit room, and in your present state of disorientation, you didn’t possess the capacity to panic at the stranger's presence. Though even in his current state, his dark chocolate locks messily fallen over his closed eyes, his white shirt – lightly wrinkled – clinging to his well-defined physique, his alabaster complexion only flawed by the shadows colouring his under eyes; he was the most arrestingly beautiful man you had ever beheld.

 

There was an extravagant ring wrapped around the fourth finger of his left hand.

 

His eyes flew open without warning, revealing bottomless pools of blue illuminated by lamplight. His brilliant orbs moved against yours for a moment. You followed the flickering movement.

 

Recognition dawned on your face, though he appeared a tad more weathered than how you had seen him in the magazines and on television.

 

You wondered how Japan’s most powerful man had found his way to your hospital room, and what had led him to fall asleep against you alone. And more pressingly, why he was holding you so desperately, his whole form, trembling ever so softly.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd....do let me know what you think :)


	25. All My Love Is For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should have been said in the previous chapter, but thank you for sticking with me for a 100,000 + words, and for sticking around for 80 chapters, you guys are amazing. This fic is longer than most books published so the fact that you're all still here means everything :)

Seto Kaiba has never known desperation like this. Waiting for you to wake up, uncertain if you ever will, he had started praying, or rather, considering the man in question, negotiating; negotiating with an unknown power, pleading for it to bring you back to him. He had never been spiritual, and he likely never would be, but his wife had been to some extent, and while all his life he had dismissed many things as ‘hocus-pocus’ mind tricks and delusions of the mind, he had undeniably witnessed events that could not be rationalized with scientific reason, and so he hoped, desperately, that the thing he deemed the most ridiculous; fate, if such a thing did indeed exist, would for once play in his favour. Indeed, desperation could drive a man mad, and it could lead even the sanest of men to do things that he would never have otherwise fathomed considering. Though he wondered, ultimately, wasn’t that desperation just another manifestation of love?

 

He made promises in his mind to you, day and night, one after another, he repeated them. He spoke them to you as you slept, because that’s _all_ you were; asleep. He shouldn’t have made you lonely the way he had, should have given himself to you when you had asked...he should have followed everything on that list you had kept telling him about. Looking at the list you had jotted, through the shattered screen of your phone he swore, that if you woke up again, he would follow every last point on that list. Whether it took you months to wake up, or years, he would wait, he was willing to wait; it was the only thing he could do.

 

It should have been him lying there. Why wasn’t it him? Why did you have to be so perfectly saintly even in that last moment, so aggravatingly self-sacrificing, leaving him alone.

 

...

 

He had visited your office one morning, the sickly white washed hospital walls driving him mad. He couldn’t fathom taking one step into the bedroom the two of you had shared. He wasn’t sure what had led him there, only that he had suddenly found himself standing before your desk.

 

The brightly annotated calendar you had thrown at him only a few days ago caught his eye, discarded in the trash can. He bent over hesitantly, picking it up. His eyes drifted past it to what appeared to be a letter underneath it, penned in blue ink in your handwriting, now lining the bottom of your garbage bin. He retrieved the piece of paper as he stood up, eyes falling first over the colourful calendar.

 

He thought he had forgotten how to breathe, flipping through the months.

 

Dull blue eyes flickered over all the days you had marked, circling with cherry red hearts the screening dates at eight weeks, eleven weeks, eighteen weeks, thirty two, forty.

 

There was this crushing despondency weighing against his chest.

 

‘Daddy gets to see baby,’ the watermelon pink writing read under the eight week mark, a raspberry sticker glued beside it. He closed his eyes, looking away. There was an embossed fig beside week ten, a sweet potato at week eighteen, a pineapple by the thirty third week, a watermelon over the thirty ninth, and a bright orange pumpkin with a smiley face drawn over it over week forty.

 

Normally, he would have no doubt dubbed this tacky, possibly even laughed, taunting you for how ridiculous and juvenile this was, and yet in that moment, more than anything, he longed to be irritated by your childlike enthusiasm. He hadn’t realized how serious you had been.

 

He now knew what you meant when you told him air wasn’t reaching your lungs all those times. Why was he holding his breath? He forced himself to read the letter; it couldn’t possibly be any more devastating than what he had seen. It probably didn’t even concern him, but he craved some part of you, any part. Your handwriting was a poor substitute, and yet in that moment, it would have to be enough.

 

“To the love of my life,” it was addressed. “My dear Seto,” it read, “I hope you never have to read this letter. If you’re reading this letter, something has gone terribly wrong. Honestly, I know my chances aren’t very good. I went to the gynaecologist today, she told me to be prepared for the possibility. But I want to follow through with this; I know how much you want children. And even until the last moment, I believed I would be alright. I’m writing this now, months before you’ll ever read this because I don’t think I could get myself to write this closer to the time. If you’re reading this, tell our baby how we couldn’t wait to meet her.” He could hear your voice as he read your words. He smiled bitterly at how you had been convinced you would give him a daughter. “If you’re reading this, tell her how much mummy loved her, tell her how much we waited for her.” The ink was blotted there, he ran his thumb over the blurred words, his heart wrenching at the sight of the tear stained paper. “Please love her, and look after her like you looked after me. Give her all the love I couldn’t give her. Please don’t let her be lonely.” His blue eyes grew clouded as he read the next words. “Take care of yourself, don’t skip your meals, and even though you won’t listen to me, please get enough sleep, don’t overwork yourself.” He felt tears leaving him, except those weren’t tears, it was blood; he was bleeding. He felt a part of him leaving. “These aren’t the sort of last words I imagined myself leaving, but I want to tell you, I really wanted to tell you...Seto, you’ve given me enough love to last a lifetime, and if we ever meet again in our next lives, if you believe such a thing, I promise I won’t take it for granted. I’ll recognize you first. I hope then, more than anything, that we could grow old together. For looking after me who was young, and immature, and loving me unconditionally, I’ll always be grateful. This life you’ve given me, it passed like a dream. Looking back, if you remember me someday, years from now, the short time we had together, I hope it brings a smile to your face. I was so incredibly happy being with you, so even at the end of the world, I’ll be fine, 誰よりも愛の意味を 力を知ってるから. 愛してるよ.”

 

He subdued a tortured cry, falling to his knees, his knuckles burning white as he gripped the edge of your desk. He screamed your name, clutching the tear blotted letter to his chest.

 

This couldn’t be the end. This was too ironic, writing to him as if you had seen the end. As if death was an old friend you were ready to walk with. Except in some ways, this was worse; he didn’t have a daughter to remember you by. You’ve left nothing behind besides your memory.

 

 

“You’ve always taken everything I had from me,” he roared at the sunny blue sky stretching beyond the glass, “you’re not taking her. I will die before I give you my wife. If you’re going to take her, you can take her from my cold, dead fingers.”

 

Every memory worth saving had been with you, memories of you forcing him to eat cotton candy at the funfair, the carnival lights twinkling, exchanging your wedding bands under falling stars, proposing to you under the cherry blossoms, waking up to you every morning, they all flooded his memory as if a monsoon storm in the summer, taking his breath away, and with every fibre of his being, he wished it would; the concept of how the world would continue nonchalantly, how mornings would continue to come, stars would once again fall, cherry blossoms once again bloom and wither at the kiss of summer as if nothing was wrong was unbearable to him. He was on the verge of losing everything. How dare the world forget you had ever existed while he would continue to carry you in every part of him, like salt in the sea?

 

When you had placed his hand over your stomach, telling him you couldn’t wait for him to feel the baby moving, he wished he had said something. When you told him you wanted to go grocery shopping together, he should have obliged, he told himself. He should have held you tighter, loved you harder, been kinder to you, and told you that you were his better half. What had he ever done to deserve you?

 

...

 

Watching over you, your eyes closed as it had been for weeks now, your complexion ghostly, your scent growing distant each day, his mind drifted to Egypt. He wondered if there was something in those tombs that could bring you back.

 

His wealth meant nothing to him anymore, his influence was worthless. He questioned why he had worked so tirelessly at maintaining them, abandoning you as often as he did. These days he only worked to tie him over until he fell asleep again, collapsing from exhaustion by your side.

 

Thoughts wandering aimlessly through the labyrinths he had woven in his own mind, some walls to keep memories in, some passages to keep him occupied, he fell asleep as he always did, leaning over you from his chair that had become his prison.

 

Roused by stirring he was all too familiar with in the early hours of the morning, in his sleep deprived state, he almost soothed you back to sleep, believing himself to be asleep with you in the bedroom the two of you shared, as he often did in his dreams, before his bleary eyes snapped open, meeting your open ones, void of any emotion.

 

It took him a moment to discern dream from reality, his fatigued gaze following yours slowly coming to life. He found himself coming to life.

 

He reached forward, snatching you into his arms, his embrace growing tighter, every muscle in his arm pulled taut around you, as if to guard you from slipping away from him like fine dust in the wind. A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. It was inaudible, though it shook his whole body.  

 

It was that moment of invincibility, that feeling of being on top of the world, before the free fall from the cliff’s edge.

 

Was a person stripped of their memory still the same person, or were they a mere mirage of their former self?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation: Because I know the strength of love better than anybody else. I love you.
> 
>  
> 
> Let me know what you think :) 
> 
> No really, let me know what you all think of where this story is going, because like someone said, it did a pretty abrupt 180.


	26. Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note, I didn’t italicizes every English conversation because it grew to be repetitive, hard to read and since I typed this on a laptop, phone and tablet, the formats didn’t translate and I gave up redoing it. But I hope it’s self-explanatory who speaks what language. 
> 
> I tried to keep the medical stuff as accurate as I could from my knowledge and understanding though I’m not a certified practitioner or anything so there could be slip ups. Do let me know if you catch any. 
> 
> With waking up form a state of comatose, there will be some temper flares, naturally, which is just the brain re-adjusting itself and so most of the times the reader loses her composure, this is what I went by. 
> 
> There’s so much time to make up for in this chapter with regards to everything that was left interrupted, but I’m trying to not cram it all in one go. So on that note, enjoy, and do let me know your thoughts!
> 
> :)

  
You remained very still. You refused to breath, afraid that you would somehow offend him. There was a paralyzing spell of petrification governing your body. This was the man who held all of Japan and the greater part of the continent in the palm of his hand, what repercussions you wondered, would you be subjected to if you slighted him.  
   
He possessed a notoriously short temper, and you were too frightened to summon his ire. Being on the receiving end of his infamous wrath you felt might very well end your life.  
   
Strangely, his embrace felt familiar.  
   
Parting from you, he held you firmly by your shoulders, fingers digging into your upper arms.  
   
“Tell me you’re alright” he demanded, and you nodded disconcertedly, only having partially understood what he had said. He pulled you into his embrace once more, his grip crushing. “Do you have any idea what you put me through? I thought I lost you. Stupid girl, grow old together in our next life? How melodramatic,” he growled, “what did you plan on doing this time around?”  
   
Again, you made sense of his words with the handful of phrases you comprehended.  
   
“M-Mr. Kaiba,” you stuttered with hesitation in English, “you are Mr. Kaiba aren’t you?” you added cautiously, though his appearance was unmistakable.  
   
He tore away from you as quickly as he had leapt to hold you, severe blue eyes appraising you as if you were somehow defective.  
   
“Mr. Kaiba?” his eye twitched, repeating your words in English. You noticed he spoke with an American accent, contrasting yours which currently held no form or structure, more closely resembling a drunken slur.  
   
“I’m sorry,” you flinched, “You just look so much like him I –”  
   
He growled your name under his breath, “If you’re playing some sort of sick joke, it isn’t funny.”  
   
You raked your brain, had you been acquainted with him from somewhere, even if briefly, because clearly, he was aware of who you were, and so it was safe to eliminate the possibility that he had accidentally wandered into the wrong room, not that anyone would ever expect that of him. He was much too precise.  
   
When was it that you had met him, if ever, what was the last time…what was the last of anything that your memory could recall?  
   
Your breath knotted in your throat, eyes growing to rival those of a deer in headlights.  
   
He combed his fingers through his hair, eyes falling heavenward for a brief moment before focusing them back on you.  
   
“If you have any idea what I went through,” his voice was a grim whisper. He swallowed thickly, as if the words evoked memories too painful to speak.  
   
You offered him an apologetic bow, “I’m sorry,” you slurred, “but have we met?”  
   
His brows drew together, forehead creasing, and you found yourself under the intense scrutiny of his sapphire eyed gaze. He spun towards the nightstand, sharply on his heel, before plucking the receiver off of the phone, and imposingly screaming at someone on the other end. The words this time were completely elusive to you.  
   
There was suddenly a clamour of approaching footsteps and voices, resembling an oncoming stampede, and moments later the room was flooded by doctors and nurses in white robes and stethoscopes draped around their necks.  
   
Gathering around your bed as if to watch some spectacle, the room was buzzing with hushed whispers, “She’s awake, she’s awake,” the ones you could make sense of said. It was an experience similar to being bombarded with paparazzi, except infinitely more disconcerting; their eyes watching you as if observing a zoo animal. They were Caucasian and Asian, and a few you couldn’t discern in between.  
   
An older doctor with harsh ridges engraved into his features dove forward. He peeled open your eyes, shining a narrow light into your both eyes. He pendulated his finger before your face, and despite not understanding his instructions, you followed. He briefly exchanged a few words with Mr. Kaiba standing on the other side of your bed, before redirecting his attention to you.  
   
He asked you a question; at least, you assumed it was a question from how his voice inflected at the conclusion of his sentence. You could only watch while resembling a doe in headlights. He asked you another, and you stiffly shook your head. He probed a third time, and you repeated your previous motion.  
   
You felt a pressure enveloping your right palm, and you peered down to find Kaiba’s hand woven through yours. It took a while for the warmth of his hand to seep into yours.  
   
“He’s asking you if you remember your name,” Kaiba elucidated in English, and your head snapped in his direction at the familiarity of his tongue.  
   
“Yes,” you nodded weakly, offering your name.  
   
Another older doctor, her short hair curled into grey golden ringlets, approached you from the crowd of awaiting specialists. She offered you a warm smile, crouching by your bedside.  
   
“My name is Doctor Easterlin,” she extended in greeting. “Can you tell me what your date of birth is?” You responded, though your words lacked articulation. “Your age?”  
   
You shook your head in agitation, “I – I don’t know,” you breathed.  
   
Assuring you that it was alright, she continued, “Do you recall anything about the person standing by your bedside?”  
   
“I know who he is,” you mumbled, and for a transitory moment, relief washed over him, before you spoke again. It was a cruel way to mislead a man, even if unwittingly. “I don’t think there’s anyone who doesn’t, at least on this side of the world. But I don’t understand why he keeps touching me,” you added with consternation, snatching your hand away from his grip, “Why is he - why am I here?” your tone grew strained and desperate.  
   
Kaiba motioned to speak, his expression growing stern, as if it wasn’t already plenty cross, and the doctor urged with a nod of her head for him to be patient.  
   
“What’s the last date you recall?” she inquired and you snapped.  
   
“I don’t know! I’m telling you I don’t know!” you shrieked, severely disoriented, “I keep telling you I don’t know and you keep asking me – I don’t know, just tell me what I’m doing here,” you pleaded, composure dissolving to sobs.  
   
“It will be alright,” she began to coo and you interrupted.  
   
“Nothing is alright. I can barely remember who I am! How am I alright?” you begged in question, tears brimming your eyes. You could feel a hand on your back, and you twisted to face the young chairman with a menacing glare, your previous inhibitions of offending him overwhelmed by hysteria, “Stop touching me!” His hand fell away and the creases on his forehead deepened.  
   
“You were in a car accident,” the doctor began explaining in a soft register, “your body was inflicted some pretty severe trauma; nerve damage, internal hemorrhaging, soft tissue damage. It was mostly your lower body but you received some blunt force trauma on the side of your head. Are you following along so far?” You offered her a delayed nod. “Your blood pressure dropped severely from the internal bleeding and you went into cardiac arrest. Your heart stopped twice,” she continued, and you clasped your hand over your mouth in horror.  
   
“That’s enough,” Kaiba barked, “she’s gone through enough.”  
   
“It’s within her right to know,” the specialist disagreed, her attention falling back to you. “Fortunately you didn’t need surgery for the bleeding, but despite the blood transfusions, you went into shock. You’ve been in comatose for three weeks now. Your CT scans weren’t concerning, but obviously it’s difficult to diagnose every possible complication.”  
   
You looked down at your hands, turning them trepidatiously to study them, confirming they indeed had not aged from how you last recalled them.

You couldn’t find it in yourself to respond to her. What could you even have said?  
   
Quite essentially, she was telling you that you had died.  
   
“I didn’t fly you in from the US to hear that,” Kaiba spat with unconcealed derision, “I didn’t fly in your team, and theirs from Germany to hear that.”  
   
“Mr. Kaiba, it’s not at all uncommon for patients waking up from a comatose state to feel slightly disoriented upon first regaining consciousness. Her cognitive functions are normal, which is a huge relief. We can’t hypothesize every complication. Her scans -”  
   
“She doesn’t know who I am!” he stressed every word, “That’s not a simple disorientation! Fix her, or hypothesize yourself a new profession.”  
   
“Mr. Kaiba,” she retorted, indignation plain in her tone, “you’re stressing out the patient. And keep in mind that it’s a miracle that she is conscious after what she has had to endure.”  
   
“She’s conscious because I resuscitated her after the morons at this hospital declared it was too late,” he asserted harshly, voice scraping your ears like pumice against sandpaper. He sounded absolutely tortured. “I don’t care what you have to do, or how you have to do it,” he snarled, “just make my wife remember me. Whatever it takes. I’m willing to do anything.”  
   
Your glazed eyes snapped to attention, darting to meet his. He spoke plain English, and yet it rained over your ears as if a foreign tongue.  
   
“I beg your pardon,” you slurred, “did you say wife?”  
   
The specialist kneeled beside you inhaled laboriously at the revelation.  
   
“That can’t be right,” you implored her for a retraction of his declaration.  
   
“I understand this is frustrating Mr. Kaiba, but imagine how difficult it must be for your wife,” she compelled him to see reason. “You must be patient with her. She may not remember you but you’re all she has.”  
   
“Would you stop speaking about me as if I’m not here?” you cut in, irritated.  
   
“Right, of course, my apologies,” she quickly offered. She called your name, “Mr. Kaiba is your husband,” she confirmed, “you’ve been married to him for almost six months now.”  
   
“If you don’t mind,” Kaiba sneered, “I would like a moment alone with my wife.”  
   
“There’re still many tests we need to perform,” a greying gentleman with green eyes joined the conversation, immediately gaining Kaiba’s ire.  
   
“Perform them after,” he barked and you winced at the tone.  
   
“What tests?” you still queried quietly, struggling to properly enunciate your words.  
   
“Well,” the male doctor mulled his thoughts, “your legs were dealt some pretty serious nerve and soft tissue damage, and while that seems to be healing, given the possibility of muscle atrophy, we’d still have to perform some physicals to ensure you can walk.”  
   
“If I can walk?” you repeated, tone climbing to a feverish pitch once again.  
   
“Like I said,” Kaiba grit his teeth, “I need a moment alone with my wife.”  
   
There were muffled words exchanged between the group of doctors and nurses as they hesitantly shuffled out of the room.  
   
“Call us if you need anything,” Doctor Easterlin extended before she closed the door behind her.  
   
An awkward silence descended upon the grand hospital room, which once the light fixtures suspended from the ceiling were fully illuminated more closely resembled a hotel suite.  
   
You wouldn’t look at him.  
   
“Can I hold you?” he husked, “I waited so long.” You’ve never fathomed it was possible for such a feared man to sound so vulnerable. His tone greeted you with goosebumps. He received your silence as permission, and reaching across the bed, he motioned to wrap his arms around you.  
   
“I rather you not, Mr. Kaiba,” you avoided his embrace, leaning away.  
   
He breathed your name in a broken whisper, imploring you against your reluctance, brushing a few strands of stray hair from your face.  
   
“Please,” you murmured, “Stop touching me.”  
   
His hand fell to his side, and there was a fleeting trace of some emotion you couldn’t read.  
   
There was no crueler mistress than a fate which once gave a love so profound before stealing it away, leaving one open heart bleeding, burning alone with that same love, while taunting him with the memory of what once was, and the image of the heart which it erased.  
   
‘Recognize me first in my next life?’ he recalled wryly, scoffing at the promise, ‘you can’t even recognize me now.’  
   
All he had wanted to do was hold you.  
   
There were tears pooling in your eyes, your mind so disoriented it amplified the physical discomfort. You were overwhelmed by a sense of dread, abandonment, confusion and loneliness so intense that you couldn’t begin to vocalize your thoughts; simply because you didn’t have any tangible thoughts you could convey.  
   
The accumulated sum of these emotions translated into impulse and in thoughtless compulsion, you heaved your legs off the side of the bed, not accounting for the fact that they may have been agonizingly stiff from having laid there in one attitude for many number of weeks, and not paying mind to the possible nerve damage you were warned of. You were desperate to prove - though mostly to yourself - that you could walk, in spite of what you had been told. Your limp legs could not carry the weight of your sore body, and under the unbearable pull of gravity, your knees buckled. Collapsing against the cold marble tile, your fall pulled with it the metal pole your saline was suspended on, the crook of your arm feeling as if it would rip as the catheter yanked harshly, stirring the needle piercing your vein.   
   
Fresh pain spilling through your arm, the clash of the metal pole against the bed, before meeting the stone floor with a resonating clang reverberated through the room along with your piping cry.  
   
You heard a distinct hiss from across the bed, swift footsteps stalking around. “Why would you do that?” Kaiba growled, calling your name with unrestrained horror.  
   
Finding you slumped besides the bed, hunched over, writhing in agony, he lifted you by the crook of your shoulders, wrapping your legs around his waist as if it was the most natural thing.  
   
Setting you down on the bed, he carefully studied your arm, droplets of blood leaking backwards into the catheter. You noticed from your peripheral that he had erected the pole before charging to your side. Confirming that you were alright, he embraced you, this time without requesting your consent.  
   
You flinched at his touch and his arms tensed around you, “Are you afraid of me?”  
   
You nodded meekly, and he sighed.  
   
“Why?”  
   
His voice rumbled in his chest. You could feel it against your temple.  
   
“I’m – you’re – ” you sighed in defeat. Was it prudent to tell someone that you were afraid of him because of the image media had portrayed of him. Did you of all people have that right, to ignorantly judge based on rumour?  
   
“I would never hurt you,” he assured in a rasp, “I don’t know what I would do without you. Thank you, for waking up.”  
   
“I want to be alone,” you told him, “I need to sort out my thoughts.”  
   
“I’m not leaving you alone,” he rejected, continuing to hold you.  
   
“Mr. Kaiba – ”  
   
“Seto,” he corrected. You remained silent, the name felt too personal as you repeated it in your thoughts for you to bring yourself to say it out loud.  
   
Soft convulsions began to pulse through your limbs, before collecting at the pit of your stomach as if a stormy whirlpool, flooding your lungs with terror and clogging your throat. It was as if an octopus was slowly wrapping itself around every organ in your chest, squeezing tighter and tighter. You began to breathe animatedly.  
   
“Please,” you begged, struggling under his grip, “please just let me be. I don’t remember anything about you. I can’t be married to you.”  
   
You felt him press his lips over your hairline and you released a shrill scream.  
   
He parted from you immediately at that, speaking in a hoarse tone, “Very well.”  
   
You waited for him to leave the room.  
   
Drawing your knees up to your chest, you sunk against the headboard. There was a sharpness digging into your stomach. Peering down you discovered a silver framed, glass locket, hung from a suede string, containing what appeared to be a Duel Monsters card. Twisting it to face you, rolling your thumb over the glass screen shielding the card, your features contorted as recognition dawned on you; it was the famed Blue Eyes White Dragon. Your eyebrow hitched in surprise, eyes fleetingly glancing at the door behind which Kaiba had disappeared. Had he done this? It obviously had been him. You didn’t know how to interpret the gesture.  
   
   
There was a knock at the door, and you responded irately. A young woman’s voice greeted you, inquiring if she could come in. She informed you that she was a nurse, bringing you something to keep you hydrated under the physicians’ instructions.

She spoke in Japanese, you realized, though you had comprehended fully. You watched her close the door behind her before she bowed.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she stumbled over her words in broken English, “I...brought apple juice - ”

“It’s alright,” you returned in Japanese, finding the words in your memory as you spoke, “I understood you the first time.”

“That’s a relief,” she broke into a smile, setting down the tray and handing you the glass. At your hesitance, she motioned with her head for you to accept. Slowly, you lifted your hands, clutching the glass. “You know,” she spoke again shyly, “I know this isn’t my place to tell you this, but you shouldn’t be so hard on your husband.” You raised your eyebrow at the abrupt remark. She continued, “My husband is a teacher,” she told you, “he’s nowhere as busy as your husband is. He has most weekends off and the vacations too, and yet, he’d rather spend his free time with his friends. He hasn’t so much as put a cold towel on my head when I had a fever. We would have been married three years this July.”

“Where are you going with this?” you questioned, feeling the cold liquid soothe your parched throat.

“Miss, you’ve been here for three weeks, and your husband has been in this room with you for just as long. He never once left. I imagine he is busy with work given his position but he insisted on staying.” She pointed past you towards a wooden arm chair, thinly upholstered with grey cushions. You couldn’t tell if the chair was originally constructed that way or if constant stress on the surface had left those impressions. “He sat on that chair all day while he worked,” she apprised, “and he insisted on sitting there all night, sleeping there too, usually leaned over you.” Still addled by your disarrayed thoughts, you didn’t know what to make of her words. You simply breathed, waiting for her to go on. Somehow her words were soothing to you in that moment. “He wouldn’t let the nurses touch you,” she tittered fondly, “he always bathed you himself, turned you every few hours so you wouldn’t get sleep sores. It made me rethink my opinions of him, it made all of us. He’s not as bad as the public paints him to be. That’s just a front. He only yells like that because he’s worried about you.”

You handed her your empty glass. “Thank you.”

“Sure thing,” she chirped, “Let me know if there’s anything else you want. You’re allowed to have liquids and semi-solids for now.”

“No,” you corrected, “for your words. I needed to hear them.”

...

You woke up the following morning to a dampness grazing your forearm. Stirring awake, murmuring incoherently, you opened your eyes to Kaiba hunched over the king sized bed, wiping your arm with a washcloth.

Your arm recoiling from his grasp out of instinct, you supported yourself on your elbows, albeit ungracefully.

“What are you doing?” you questioned, flustered. It was one thing to wake up to find a stranger washing you this way, it was quite another to wake up to an obscenely handsome stranger of imposing influence, suddenly claiming to be your husband committing the deed, though he had clearly not meant anything explicit by his actions.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he plainly retorted. Distracted for a moment, you observed how his warm mocha locks, lustrous against the morning light fluttered over his eyes like iridescent indicolite as he moved, before your eyes unwittingly drifted down to the top two buttons of his white dress shirt, undone and revealing the indents of his defined collar bones. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his forearms flexing as he continued making long strokes along your arm. Colour flooded your cheeks, dying your face a conspicuous scarlet. He observed your expression, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I see you’re not completely out of yourself.”

“What does that mean?” you challenged, caught off guard.

“I still affect you,” he smugly remarked, wiping at your face.

You could only scoff in denial.

“I understand this is difficult for you,” he abruptly declared, gently pressing the towel against your face, “especially being as young as you are, but I know you, you’re a strong young woman. You’ll get through. You’ll remember, same way you remembered Japanese.”

“Was it for business?” you inquired monotonously.

He tilted your face, gripping your chin with his thumb and forefinger, as he continued to run the towel over your cheek.

“Yes,” he responded, having understood what you had been referring to.

“Then you have no reason to be doing this, Mr. Kaiba,” you pointed. “If you’re doing this out of guilt or a sense of obligation you -”

“It’s neither of those things,” he cut in, continuing to wipe your face. He paused briefly, lowering the wash clothe, running his thumb along the inner corner of your eye.

“Then why are you doing this?” you questioned. You weren’t sure what you had expected, perhaps a heart wrenching confession of his affection? You weren’t certain he was capable of loving someone.

“Would you like to have a shower?” he inquired, avoiding your question.

“I can barely stand,” you reminded him, “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“I can help.”

“No,” you rejected, sooner than the words had left his mouth.

“Fine,” he spoke quietly, reaching for your other arm.

There was a short knock at the door, though before either of you could answer, it opened with a sharp click, revealing a smartly dressed young man with a charcoal mane which grew like a tamed, electrocuted mop, a jarring contrast against the white suit and waistcoat he wore.

“Hey sis,” he spoke in a controlled whisper, as if cooing an infant, “how are you doing? It’s good to see you awake...”

“She doesn’t remember you, but her comprehension isn’t lagging Mokuba,” Kaiba snapped, draping the clothe in his hand over the wash basin on the nightstand. “This is my brother, Mokuba,” he reintroduced, turning to you.

Mokuba approached you cautiously, rubbing the back of his head sheepishly.

“So she doesn’t remember anything?” he asked his brother, and Kaiba clicked his tongue.

“She can also hear you,” the elder Kaiba reminded.

“Right, my bad,” he grinned embarrassed. “I brought you some jelly wagashi, my brother tells me you really like them,” he handed you a heavy department store bag. Kaiba reached over you, taking the bag from you.

“I..do,” you flickered your gaze back to Kaiba with a look of incredulity, “thank you.”

“Stay with her for a moment,” he advised his younger brother, “I have a phone call to make.”

“Sure thing.”

Mokuba settled himself on the bedside chair previously occupied by his brother. He waited for his brother to exit the room before speaking.

“He really loves you, you know,” he unexpectedly began. It was impossible not to wear undisguisedly the shock which flooded your face. You had to hand it to the boy, he knew how to open his conversations.

“What?”

“I’m not sure if you know, but your heart stopped twice.” You nodded in response. “The second time it stopped, the doctors were inexorable, insisting that nothing could be done. Seto refused to take that for an answer. He kept going until you had a pulse again. He may have fractured your rib, but he brought you back. He told me your last words to him weren’t something he could have lived with for the rest of his life.”

“What did I say?”

“I don’t know, he wouldn’t tell me,” he fidgeted with his hands before continuing, “When you slipped into the coma, Seto lost his mind. I’ve never seen him so out of it. He told me he would go with you if you didn’t wake up. I was sure I had lost both of you.”

Your brows arched in shock at the declaration. How fond of you had he been to make such a drastic statement?

“And...he told me not to tell you too much but he’s been sitting here for the past three weeks. Whatever work he did, he did here, and even that while monitoring you around the clock. He hadn’t taken a step outside except once when he disappeared for a good few hours and we all panicked, though he came back, muttering something about waking you up if it was the last thing he did. There was a motion brought up in the company by his directors to have him step down from his position for negligence and abandoning his post. He still wouldn’t come sit for a board meeting. He didn’t want to miss you waking up he said. He asked them to go through with it if they could.” You listened on speechless, unable to fathom a reality where Seto Kaiba would consent to be stripped of his position over a woman, though granted, his words had sounded more a threat or a challenge than permission, but still. “Of course, Kaiba Corp. can only be passed on to another Kaiba, they elected me for the position.”

“Did you take it?”

“I had to, big brother wouldn’t move an inch from this room. Temporarily anyway, I mean Seto holds the majority shares, so he can’t exactly be removed against his will, but the discord had the potential to destroy Kaiba Corp. stocks. I imagine he’ll insist on staying here until you can be discharged so do your best getting better quickly okay?”

You allowed a dry laugh, “If it were up to me, err - what did I call you before?”

“Just my name.”

“Mokuba,” you continued wryly, “I would be completely better by now.”

“You’re stressing her out Mokuba,” the older Kaiba’s irate voice returned through the door. You hadn’t heard the door open.

“That’s not what I meant, sorry.”

You shook your head assuring that it was fine.

“This is such a relief,” Mokuba stretched his arms in the air, reminding you vaguely of a stray cat, “we have the family back together.”

“Right...family,” the word unfamiliarly rolled off your tongue. You contemplated for a moment. “Speaking of, do my friends know that I’m here? What does my company think?”

“You have friends?” Mokuba burst out before he could contain himself.

“Acquaintances,” you corrected in a mumble, looking down at your hands.

“You have nothing to concern yourself,” Kaiba assured, walking past Mokuba to sit beside you on the bed, his arms crossed. You instinctively shrunk away at the close proximity.

You weren’t sure he had noticed, but he had.

“There’s someone I would like called here,” you told the brothers, and they both waited for you to speak. “Soryu. I think I would feel better if he were here.”

The brothers exchanged a look before the elder Kaiba growled, “I can’t let you do that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know how this chapter picked back up from the last one, if it felt realistic, etc, etc. Thanks! :)


	27. Trust Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an incredibly long one, I honestly don't know how it got to be 6311 words but here it is. Enjoy!

 

Disgruntled by his authority, you demanded to know why he was forbidding you from what was well within your rights. “What kind of patriarchal bullshit is that? I didn’t realize that’s the sort of relationship we had.”

“There’s a lot of things I would do for you,” he began to say and you decided to take him up on the offer.

“Like what?”

“Anything else,” he growled and your eyebrow hitched at the assertion.

“Buy me a private island,” you challenged, “humour me.”

Mokuba grumbled your name in disapproval and the older Kaiba turned his attention to his cellphone, punching in a number.

“Do you have a preference?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The Caribbean, Atlantic, Europe,” Kaiba elaborated, “do you have a preference?”

“He’s really going to do it,” Mokuba massaged his temples, “see, this is what I told you. Don’t manipulate him like that. You could ask him to turn over Kaiba Corp. and he would do it.” Kaiba directed a pointed glare at his younger sibling though he could hardly be discouraged. “Technically you’re a Kaiba by marriage; you could take over the company too.”

Glancing between the brothers, the influence yours words seemed to carry sinking in, you quickly reached for the cellphone Kaiba had already brought to his ear, lowering it.

“I was joking, Mr. Kaiba,” you hurriedly retracted, “it was only a joke.”

He appraised you with flinty eyes, before sighing, his expression softening, “Seto,” he once again corrected, and once again you elected to remain silent.

“On a serious note though, why can’t I have Soryu visit me?” you inquired.

“Because I have your corporation to think about,” he plainly responded.

“My corporation?” you raised your brow, begging for him to elucidate.

“Don’t concern yourself with it. Focus on getting better.”

“If it _concerns_ my corporation, you have an obligation to tell me.”

He sighed in concession, “If word gets out that you’ve lost your memory, SKO’s stocks will fall, so will Kodama’s and in turn it’ll also impact Kaiba Corp’s. I can’t allow that to happen.”

“Kodama? My grandfather’s company?”

“It’s yours now,” he apprised, “you acquired it earlier this year.”

You reflected on his words for a moment, “That must have been quite the blood bath.”

“It was,” he tersely returned. “I was very impressed with how you handled the affair.”

Hearing that you had somehow managed to impress the most ruthless businessman on the continent was its own compliment.  

“Were we married then?”

“No.”

You nodded in understanding. “Speaking of, given my current condition, lying here in a coma for three weeks, I imagine that would have hurt company stocks quite gravely.”

“Beside our respective boards, and the staff serving this room, your condition hasn’t been disclosed to anyone. As far as the public is concerned, you’re recovering from a broken leg from a hit and run accident,” he divulged. “Neither of our boards would open their mouths for the fear of stocks dropping. Your amnesia however they can stab you in the back with and I don’t plan on that happening.”

“I see,” you mumbled pensively. “I’ve been meaning to ask though, why exactly would Kaiba Corp. stocks take a hit if it’s discovered that I’ve lost my memory?”

“Because right before you lost your memory, we signed a merger between Kodama and Kaiba Corp.”

You would admit, that was rather unexpected, though in your current state of mind, you didn’t know what to make of anything.

“Oh my god,” you exhaled, the gravity of the situation sinking in, “I’m going to have to relearn my whole life.” You buried your face in your hands, contemplating your predicament; you were going to have to do a character study on _yourself_.

Your fragmented memories, years scattered beyond a place you could reach, the remaining blending into each other; days melding into the next as the next did to the last, your thoughts lacked cohesion, order and chronology. The people in your memories had had their faces erased, past conversations eluding you.

And perhaps the most daunting, you had woken up the wife to the nation’s most powerful man. You would be lying to yourself if you said you weren’t suspicious, deliberating whether this was some elaborate, corporate scheme to acquire your corporation. His displaced kindness was also alarming to you.

Sinking deeper and deeper still into your thoughts, you only vaguely registered the embrace drawing you against a warm body, completely missing the glance the elder Kaiba gave the younger, motioning for him to leave the room.

“I’m here,” Kaiba’s hoarse voice penetrated the dread consuming you, and his words, those words, that voice, distantly evoked some memory in you.

You were standing in a hallway, the carpets a Prussian blue, moments before you were drowned by darkness. ‘I’m here,’ he had said, reassuringly.

Dear god, you pondered, was this man actually your husband? And if you hadn’t believed it, would you have allowed his advances to hold you this way?

You allowed him to surround you, feeling a deep urge to be held, to be loved, and you convinced yourself that the affection this man was willing to give would suffice.

“I’ll take care of it,” Kaiba husked, “I told I would take responsibility of you, and I will.”

“You have no obligation,” you disputed quietly.

“Nonsense,” he rejected, “you’re my wife.”

“Contract wife,” you corrected and he sighed.

“You’re much more to,” he began to say only to be interrupted by another knock.  Growling under his breath, he bade them in.

“Mr. Kaiba,” the white coat clad physician stepped in, his eyes inspecting the clipboard in his hand, before they drifted up to meet you. “Ooh, is this a bad time?” the strawberry blonde doctor with a bristle top for hair whistled, his expression twisting.

“If it were, I wouldn’t have asked you to come in,” Kaiba shot back without missing a beat. “What is it?” he sibilated, continuing his firm grip around you.

“Oh,” the physician straightened up, “my name is Doctor Blythe – ”

“I don’t care what your name is,” Kaiba sneered, “I asked you what you wanted.”

Evidently unravelled by the hostility which could have been said came out of left field had it not been Seto Kaiba in question, he stumbled over his next words as he explained how he had come intending to hold a physical examination.

You parted from Kaiba, and hauled your uncoordinated limbs across the bed, pushing your numb legs over the edge.

“You still have some control over your lower half,” Dr. Blythe noted down, nodding to himself, “Mrs. Kaiba, do you think you could try moving your toes?”

There was no pain; in fact you hardly felt anything at all. You didn’t feel a pull on the tendons of your outer arch as you curled your big toe back, just an uncomfortable sense of weakness. It was disorienting not being the master of your own limbs, being unable to control motions you had lived taking for granted. Your expression crinkling with distress, instinct turned you to look back at Kaiba, watching you intently standing by your side with his arms crossed.

The physician ran a reflex hammer along the arch of your foot, before lightly tapping it against your knee. Setting down the instrument, he requested a number of things of you; he asked for you to ball your fingers into fists, push against his palm, repel the resistance his arms posed over your legs by lifting them upwards, before appearing to arrive at a conclusion.

“Your sensory neurons seem to function normally,” he advised, “it’s your fine motor controls that require therapy.”

“I could have told you that,” Kaiba scoffed, rolling his eyes with derision.

Battling the urge to tell the young president to mind his manners, you restrained yourself, still undecided on if you saw him as family or a threat. It was difficult to find affection in those menacing blue eyes and intimidating glower he permanently wore. His imposing height was of course only another notch on that same belt.

You had seen him for the first time during a live dueling broadcast whilst you were still in high school, introducing some virtual reality projecting duel disk, terrorizing an entire stadium of people with the sole agenda of promoting his product, those blue eyes which provoked fear had burnt in your memory and you could never seem to view him differently. Certainly, there had been a few moments of attraction, and moments shared you dared to even call tender, though ultimately, your mind always circled back to how threatening he had looked that one day. In your muddled memory, it felt as if it was also the most recent recollection you held of him.

…

The next few hours were a gruelling course of remedial exercise. Fortunately you didn’t need to be re-taught how to walk, though growing familiar with the sensation of balancing the weight of your core on your legs after weeks of being supported by a bed was arduous and mentally exhausting.

Crutches were a nightmare to grasp, and much more painful to use than they had seemed in theory. 

Around half one, you returned to your room, your supposed husband engrossed in his laptop on his chair which had appeared rather uncomfortable to you.

You had requested he not accompany you to your rehabilitation sessions, daring to tell him you had felt suffocated under his constant surveillance.

His eyes darted up as if to greet you as you entered, those eyes, those unease stirring eyes which made you feel as if you were committing some mistake just standing there breathing. They grew an undiscernible degree warmer as they watched you, before he stood up from his chair, walking to your side.

You froze where you stood as he towered over you, questioning how physical therapy had been.

“Fine,” you responded tersely, hopping past him.

“You took your wedding ring off,” he noted, following after you to the bed.

You didn’t need to wear your band for someone to know you were married; the semi-permanent indents the rings had engraved into your fourth finger from him having left them on you through the entire period you were unconscious was enough of a dead giveaway.

“Yes.”

“Why?” he queried as you gathered the crutches to one hand, lifting yourself onto the bed with a great deal of difficulty. He relieved your hand of the bothersome apparatuses.

“Because I don’t quite know yet if I want to be married,” you declared brazenly, before making the mistake of peering up to his eyes. Your breath immediately knotted in your throat and you instantly regretted telling him those words.

“That doesn’t change the fact that you are!” he barked first out of habit, before the promises he had made to himself resurfaced in his mind. “Have I …offended you in some way?” he inquired in earnest.

“Of course not, Mr. Kaiba,” you murmured, eyes fixated on your closed palms poised stiffly on your lap.

“Please,” he implored hoarsely, resting a hand on your shoulder, “I just want to hear you say my name, just once.”

“I don’t think we’re in a relationship intimate enough to,” you timidly refused.

He released a despondent sigh, “Very well then. Would you like something to eat?”

“No, thank you.”

“I’m begging you,” his voice grew irate, “stop treating me like I’m some stranger.”

“As far as I can remember Mr. Kaiba, we’ve never met, we’ve never spoken. If that is not the definition of a stranger, I don’t know what is.”

You wouldn’t know the severity of the wounds you were inflicting; hearing the woman who would have been the mother of his child speak in a manner so distant and hostile.

He furrowed his brows, “Think back,” he pled, “there’s no way you’ve forgotten all of me. There must be some place – ”

“There isn’t,” you snapped, the pressure he was – perhaps unwittingly in his own desperate stumble – placing on you over a matter you had no control over causing dread to churn in your gut.

He breathed your name in a whisper, determining in that moment that he was going to rekindle your affection for him, from the drawing board if he had to.

Oblivious of his thoughts you added insult to injury. “If you want to see other women, I understand.” You paused to consider. “That is, if you aren’t already.”

“Is that the sort of thing my wife is supposed to say to me? Especially after I waited by her side for weeks to see her wake up?”

“You didn’t know she would wake up not remembering you,” you blandly countered.

“Doesn’t make a difference to me,” he asserted, “I have no thoughts of being unfaithful to you.”

“That’s a very valiant notion Mr. Kaiba, but as I’ve seen in my life, men crave two things, perhaps three, money, power, and physical intimacy. You already have the first two in abundance. And I can’t give you the third.”

“You may not have your memories,” he remarked bitterly, “but I see you’re still very much yourself.”

“And that’s supposed to mean what exactly?” you begged for clarification, assuming at his silence that it meant you’ve never been physically intimate with him. “Don’t make this difficult for yourself. I’m grateful to you for saving my life, and I’m grateful that you cared for me so diligently, but I know men, I know what you’re like.”

“If this is about your father,” he began and your eyes flashed up at the mention, “I would never do that to you. We’re not all sexually depraved beasts.”

You suppressed a scoff, “I apologize if I offended you.”

He leaned down, his breath brushing the side of your cheek, “You’re the only woman I see,” he confessed in a husk, his words prickling your skin in waves as they fell over your ear, “I don’t need anyone else.” Tilting his face his lips hovered centimeters from yours, his breath kissing your cupid’s bow. He wouldn’t come closer, hoping to draw you to him. You could feel blood rushing faster through your veins, your chest rising and falling conspicuously, you found yourself leaning forward. He was your husband you reasoned, so it was your right to kiss him and as imposing as he may appear, you couldn’t discount him of how handsome he truly was. So you leaned forward, his long fingers wrapping around your upper arms; you could feel his fringe graze your forehead. A hair’s breadth away from his lips, you unwittingly glanced up towards sapphire eyes the colour of the midnight sky staring down at you, and yours grew wide with certain fear, so drawing your lips between your teeth you looked away.

A discernible shiver trembled your small form and he pulled away, disappoint evident in his features.

“Do you find me repulsive?” he inquired, and you vehemently shook your head, persistently looking elsewhere. “It’s fine then.”

He strode towards the bathroom, shutting the door with a pointed click and you shuddered at the restrained frustration he was obviously struggling to contain. Your hand fell habitually over your stomach at the motion, closing your other palm over it as if to shield yourself from the shock. You asked yourself why you had done that.

…

Passing the vanity table nestled into the far corner of the room, you looked positively mummified; as if you were a mummy resurrected, one too destitute for personal  hygiene and moisturizer. You wondered how he still insisted on holding you and kissing you. Your hair was beginning to twist into matte ringlets wreathing your face, though considering how difficult it was to maintain a gloss texture over your hair in general; you had to commend Kaiba for his competence.  

Hobbling over towards the bed on your poorly handled crutches, you stood behind him for a few moments before you gained his attention. He seemed almost eager to receive your request as he realized you had been waiting.

“I need to shower,” you grudgingly admitted, refusing to make eye contact.

“Right,” he hastily declared. Rapidly rising to his feet and setting laptop down over the bed, he rolled up his sleeves, “Let’s go.”

“No,” you flushed, “I just need something to sit on, and…just help me step in, I can manage the rest.”

“You might fall by yourself, I can’t allow that,” he disputed.

“I can’t fall when I’m sitting down, Mr. Kaiba,” you pointed out.

“I’ve seen you fall out of bed while you’re lying down,” he chuckled fondly at the recollection, “I’m not going anywhere. I won’t look,” he added finally at your apprehension.

“Stand outside the cubicle,” you requested, and with a firm huff of disapproval, he conceded.

Many more minutes of scrambling on the part of general housekeeping later, a stool was placed in the shower cubicle.

You gathered your crutches from the bedside, and were struggling with positioning the apparatuses under the crook of your arms when they were snatched away from you, instead a pair of hands slipping under, lifting you into the air.

“Why waste time with those when you have me?” Kaiba smugly declared, your legs reflexively wrapping around his waist. Holding your breath, you diverted your eyes elsewhere, willing to look anywhere but at those piercing blue eyes. Adjusting you against his waist, he set off towards the bathroom. Placing a hand against the back of your head, he leaned you in, lips hovering against your ear, “It’s okay to admit you like it.”

Your head whipping around to face him, eyes seeming scandalized, you found him looking smug as the cat that ate the canary, lips curled upwards at both ends.

Chuckling at your innocent reaction, he wondered what this version of you would think of your former self if you knew everything he and you had done.

Inside the cubicle, he lowered you on to your feet, while holding on to your shoulders until he was certain you wouldn’t collapse on him.

“There’s still time to change your mind,” he teased.

“What?”

“I can still step in there with you,” he began to say before you interrupted, calling his name accusingly. “My name is Seto,” he corrected once again with a sigh, “it’s odd for the wife to call her husband by their last name don’t you think?” You remained silent. “I’ll be outside,” he abruptly veered off the subject, voice growing solemn. “You’re keeping the door open.”  

“You’ll get wet,” you contested as he stepped outside the glass cubicle, leaning on the opened door, facing away.

“What difference does it make?” he tone was bland.

Stripping your hospital gown, you placed it on his outstretched hand.

“Don’t look,” you firmly repeated, and he offered an uninterested groan in response, crossing his arms.

You could see the droplets of water escaping the cubicle as the water started running; begin to soak the sleeve of his white dress shirt.

You couldn’t quite understand why he had insisted on staying, though certainly you were much more surprised at yourself for feeling so liberal about the concept of stripping bare in his presence, even in the absence of his gaze. Obviously, the vulnerability of unexpectedly being exposed to him at a turn of his head, should he suddenly decide to not keep his word was very present, so you considered perhaps whether you were somehow not averse to being under his scrutiny, to the possibility of being seen. Shaking the indecent thought away, you drowned the voice at the edge of your consciousness brazenly inquiring if you wanted him to look.  

Then it occurred to you that if he had tended to you while you were unconscious, he had certainly seen a lot more than you were willing to admit. Now there was something truly intimidating.

“Is there nothing you’re curious about,” he inquired over the sound of the rushing water, “…about us?”

The truth was you couldn’t afford the luxury of being curious about the idiosyncrasies of the relationship when you weren’t positive you believed the premise. You couldn’t be certain you trusted his word, and more specifically, his agenda in taking care of you so diligently.

A disturbing wave of déjà vu passed through you at the prospect and the sudden familiarity of the thought, as if your former self had also contemplated the exact possibility; the trace remnants of those thoughts pushed you to be weary of the young, fear inducing chairman who acted as if he were madly in love with you.

“No,” you responded, and he remained silent.

The truth was, there was an infinite number of things which perplexed you about the dynamic that had existed between the two of you; it was as if it were a tangled ball of yarn, one you couldn’t find a loose end to in order to unravel.

Turning the faucet, the water stopped raining over you, and you asked him for a towel. Reaching forward, handed you the towel slung over the silver rail. You stepped outside wrapped in the white, plush robe he had given you, supporting yourself against the glass walls.

He lifted you against his waist again, his expression significantly duller, carrying you to the white washed vanity.

Patting on the toner, and applying the blue glassed tub of moisturizer which you assumed was yours, their scent was unfamiliar, just as the shampoo and conditioner had been. Indeed, you had certainly changed a great deal over the course of a few years.

Looking over your shoulder to watch the young president who insisted on being devoted husband to you, you wondered if you would ever adapt to him again, if you would ever be his ideal woman, if that’s what you had been to him before. And most dauntingly, you wondered if you would ever become the woman you once were; the one you were sure you had worked so hard to become.

You gained his attention as you fumbled with the switches of the fuchsia and metallic hairdryer which resembled more a futuristic metal detector utilized by airport security. Stowing his laptop away again, he strode over, grappling the device out of your hand.

“Give it here,” he demanded, the man almost unrecognizable in a loose fitted navy blue sweater, which seemed to contradict his entire brand; though you supposed the colour was closely associated with him and he _had_ to have _some_ form of casual attire. It was difficult to remember that Kaiba existed beyond his appearances as a public figure, or rather People magazine’s favourite bachelor, and to some extent, lived as a normal, living, breathing human being, despite how lavish his lifestyle was.

Somewhere in a distant corner of your mind wondered what had happened to that title, and what the hell you had done to land Asia’s most eligible bachelor.

Unwrapping the towel around your hair with his other hand and threading his fingers through your damp hair, he clicked his tongue. You could feel goosebumps raising themselves across your arms at the touch of his fingertips on your scalp. “There’s still conditioner in your hair,” he berated.

Stepping around, he slipped his arms under yours, lifting you into him again.

“I’ll do it, it’s fine,” you awkwardly protested. He dismissed you, clicking his tongue.

Carrying you back into the bathroom in spite of your protests, he sat you down against the white marble counter besides the sink.

Once again, paying no mind to your objections, he retrieved a hand towel from the cabinet beneath the sink. It was as if he couldn’t even hear you. Checking the temperature of the water with the back of his hand, he soaked the towel. Wringing it partially, he ran the wet towel through sections of your hair.

You resolutely stared down at your hands clasped on your lap.

Satisfied with the result, he brought you back before the vanity.

It was the most bizarre sensation, feeling his fingertips graze your scalp over and over as he held the dryer over your hair. It was oddly therapeutic and stranger yet, it felt electrifying.

You dared to allow your eyes to drift up his reflection in front of you to wander over his chiseled feature, his blue eyes cast down as he intently focused his attention into drying your hair.

It was difficult to convince yourself that in spite of some obscure gut instinct, that a man this dutiful and caring would hold ulterior motives towards you, that all of this effort was some elaborate scheme to deceive you. Depending on the basis of your marriage contract, he could have quite easily made it so you couldn’t wake up and your estate would have easily become his. No one would have questioned him. Or was that not how your contract was drawn out? Were you grossly misreading the situation, you pondered.

“What is it?” Kaiba inquired, the howling of the dryer cutting away momentarily.

Your eyes darting up to meet his from where they had absently settled over your own reflection, you weakly shook your head.

He studied you for a moment before the gush of air drowned the room again.

The next you were interrupted was by a ringing voice demanding both your attention.

“You’re doing all sorts of things now big brother,” Mokuba taunted from the doorway as Kaiba switched the dryer off once again. “Wrapped around her finger like I always say,” he continued his offence, “here, I brought you what you asked for.”

“Did you ever think to knock?” Kaiba bit back with irritation lacing his words.

“I did, but you guys couldn’t hear me, now I know why,” he smirked.

“Don’t twist your words to make it sound inappropriate,” the elder growled.

“Suuure,” he drew out his word unnecessarily, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

One brother smiles like the cat who ate the canary, the other like the Cheshire; they were certainly related you confirmed, even if they were polar opposites.

“Seto tells me you like soups these guys make,” he held up a polythene bag, oddly warped by the weight of the contents. “How did you two even find this place, it’s like a hole in the freakin’ wall, no wonder Isono drove right past it,” he complained, placing the bag over a coffee table.

“Calling that place a hole in the wall is an undeserved honour,” Kaiba spat, “I didn’t find it, she did.”

“Well in any case,” Mokuba stretched his sore arms, “I’m done being your errand boy, I’m taking the rest of the night off,” he declared with a boyish grin.

“Fine,” Kaiba consented, albeit grudgingly, “but this better not be about a woman.”

“Oh Seto,” the younger cooed, “We are not all married with wives to pamper.”

“Who is she?” Kaiba demanded to know calling after the boy bounding out of the room, “It better not be Ashikaga!”

The door closed without a proper parting remark.

 

...

Sunken under the sheets later that night, once again in your drab white hospital gown, littered all over with purple daisies, you watched Kaiba unpack the series of bowls his brother had delivered.

“Pork, beef or seafood?” he inquired gruffly, hunched over the low coffee table.

“Whichever is fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“The pork then,” You mumbled.

Picking up one of the Styrofoam bowls, he walked over to the bed. Reaching for the mysterious remote lying on the nightstand which had been confounding you since earlier on what purpose it served, he pointed it at the opposite wall. The wall parted, revealing behind it a theatre sized screen, leaving you dumbstruck.

He handed you the remote as he sat beside you, the bowl of pork stew in his hand.

You reached for the bowl you assumed was yours, only to have him extend his arm out of your reach.

“If I recall correctly,” he remarked, “you burnt yourself on breakfast and spilled lunch over yourself.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Hardly,” he denied, stirring the bowl, wisps of vapour floating up into the cold room.

“Mr. Kaiba,” you spoke, hardly above a whisper, “do you really have the leisure to be doing this?”

Even if you were indeed his wife, this act seemed a bit too frivolous for the man who controlled a good part of the government with his influence. You had always imagined a man like him would marry for convenience, and from what he had divulged, he had, though you never fathomed the ice king from hell thawing for a woman the way he was before you.

Just what had you done to bring this conceited billionaire to his knees?

Either your former self had been a master blackmailer, or, unless he hadn’t implied that you’ve never been intimate, you would have assumed you had surpassed his wildest expectations in bed, you humorously concluded.

“I’ve been told you make time for what is important,” he replied in a husk, holding out a spoonful. “Drink it,” he commanded, irritated by your hesitance.

Leaning forward gingerly, you took the spoonful in your mouth. He didn’t think twice before he dipped the spoon back in the bowl and took a sip of the broth himself. You watched him stunned. You had thought a man of his nature would be rather strict with personal boundaries.

_What the hell was happening?_

Just what was it that he was after?

Rolling your finger over the glass locket in your hands, you could feel his steel gaze also focused on it over your shoulder.

“Ah,” you mumbled, “sorry, I found this around my neck. I’m sure you want it back.”

“Keep it, it’s yours,” he declared, and you were left nonplussed, “it’s yours to safeguard, but it’s not yours to duel with,” he elaborated, “I expect it back when I duel again.”

Your eye twitched slightly. You had grown up convinced that certain death would come upon any being who so much as looked at the card in a way which slighted it, let alone have the audacity to take it. You were sure that this was common knowledge, along with a few other facts, including; never look Seto Kaiba in the eye or risk being petrified, his younger brother was the most effective leverage to manipulate him with, while also the fastest way to earn a one way ticket to hell, and that the Blue Eyes White Dragon card was his holy grail, or at least a third of it.

Only a madwoman would separate him from it, you were certain he was testing you.

“I really couldn’t, Mr. Kaiba, it’s your treasured possession. Besides,” you added, hoping to tackle this situation with humour, “I’m sure you would divorce me if I lost it.”

 

“That would be a _slight_ overreaction,” he flatly grunted. You watched him for a moment, unable to read his tone. “It was a joke,” he informed, in a tone equally ambiguous. “You’ve been holding on to it anyway. Just don’t lose it.”

“Yes, sir,” you unwittingly squeaked, flinching at how his tone snapped at the end of his sentence. It was likely the first time in your life that you had addressed anyone by ‘sir.’

He shook his head, a ghost of a smile over his lips, finding the reaction endearing, as he held up another spoonful to your lips.

He ordered for you to switch on the massive screen, complaining over most of the channels you switched to, before you flicked back to the channel you had initially turned the television on to, realizing you couldn’t appease him. A rerun of a Korean drama you hadn’t seen before, or at least couldn’t recall watching before was playing.

Having finished the bowl of soup, Kaiba discarded it over the nightstand which currently only held the lampshade and a blue faced-silver Rolex you had often noticed him wearing.

 You also observed he never took his obnoxiously large wedding band off, though admittedly it suited the man wearing it. Had it been any smaller, it would have been overshadowed by his infamous ego.  

Stretching out his legs over the bed, he leaned against the headboard beside you, his arms crossed.

You couldn’t bring yourself to object his presence after all he had done, though you remained skeptical of his motives.

He remained silently by your side, watching the episode High Society, or whatever it was called, with a look which depicted unambiguous boredom and borderline irritation.

“If we were married,” you spoke muting the television during the commercial break, immediately earning his sharp gaze, “we must have a marriage certificate, wedding photos, a contract, something.”

“Are you asking for evidence?” he perceptively decoded your tone.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He sighed. “I have a meeting tomorrow morning,” he apprised, “I’ll bring our marriage certificate and the contract we signed when I return.” You nodded. “We haven’t held a wedding yet. We were planning to hold the ceremony…” there was hesitation in his voice as he appeared to debate with himself, “next spring.”

“Do we have any photos together?” you inquired hopefully.

He slid his hand into the pocket of his trousers, retrieving his phone.

Lifting your hand, he laid your forefinger over the finger print scanner, unlocking it.

It had been mildly surprised initially, though then it occurred to you that he could have quite easily registered your fingerprints while you were unconscious. You remained impassive.

Flicking through his phone, he sought what you had requested, before arriving where he had intended to.

“Swipe left,” he advised, handing you the device.

They were a collection of photos coloured in brilliant hues; bright pink lights against purple skies, they appeared to have been taken at a fun fair. You almost didn’t recognize the vivacious young woman smiling as if she had been gifted the whole world, mirth bubbling in her eyes as she held on to the stoic gentleman you realized was Kaiba, watching over her. Tears you hadn’t realized had welled spilled over your cheeks.

You suddenly felt crushed under the weight of an all-encompassing sadness, devastation stealing into every fiber of your being, pulling at your heartstrings. It was the strangest sensation. It was as if you were weeping for a love you’ve never had, for the life you’ve never lived. 

There were photos of the two of you atop the Ferris wheel, you forcing cotton candy against his tightly pursed lips, and a few other photos of you, alone, eyes aglow, staring at some distant horizon, no doubt taken by him.

“She seems very happy,” you remarked bitterly.

Kaiba wouldn’t answer you, not a word confirming your assumption would slip his lips.

…

You woke up to a dimly lit room later that night, finding yourself having fallen asleep in the same attitude you had been watching television, slightly upright against pillows propped up against the headboard.

You could feel a presence beside you, and turning, you found Kaiba, also as he had been watching television, his arms still crossed, his head fallen forward. He looked much too exhausted and peaceful for you to wake him, and even still you wouldn’t have the heart to banish him to that poorly upholstered chair.

Instead, slipping away from him, you walked around the bed, hoping your movement wouldn’t rouse him as you lifted the comforter cascading from the edge and folded it over him. He had obviously woken up the moment you left his side, though he had feigned ignorance.

Quietly returning to his side, you adjusted your pillows, soon falling back asleep yourself.

…

 

You woke up the next morning to the room bathed in morning sunlight by a raucous commotion behind your door.

By your head, the nightstand usually solely occupied by the silver-bauble stemmed table lamp, was being shared with an apothecary jar holding a blooming bouquet of pink English roses, a folded note poised in between the blossoms.

Ignoring the upheaval outside for a moment, certain it didn’t concern you; you plucked the note from the bouquet, unfolding it.

‘I’m leaving for my meeting without waking you,’ the note read in a unique, cursive scrawl you assumed was Kaiba’s, ‘I should be back within a few hours. Try not to speak to anyone that you haven’t already met if it can be helped.’ Your assumption was confirmed by the ‘S.K’ initialled at the bottom right hand corner of the note.

Suddenly the door to your room _cracked_ open – for the lack of a better word, considering how it was violently ripped open with more force than you deemed necessary, and the boisterous display you had heard outside poured into your room, flooding your room with men dressed in business suits.

“Mrs. Kaiba,” a stout gentleman clad in a pinstripe suit jacket addressed you in an adenoidal voice, “lovely to see you’re awake already this morning.”

There was a circle of nurses behind the men insisting that they shouldn’t be bombarding the patient so unceremoniously. These protests fell on deaf ears, as the men advanced towards your bed, offering you well wishes and greetings in honeyed voices.

Instinctively, you crawled backwards towards the headboard as the throng of unfamiliar men congregated around your bed.

“So good to see you well,” the first gent spoke up, something in his tone betraying his words, suggesting he really was not happy to see you well, “it's a miracle after what you've endured. We thought it only good manners to come offer our greetings to our partnering president.”

As if clockwork, all the men offered you a round of stiff bows simultaneously, their disproportionately sized heads falling forward.

You could feel your heart sink as realization dawned on you as to who these men were. You held no recollection of your own board, much less Kaiba’s.  

Have you met every single one of these men before? What sort of dynamic had you established?

One careless word had the potential to damage both you and your husband’s reputation. One false move and you were through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, let me know your thoughts ^^


	28. Square One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little slower than the last few, and the next few coming up. It is for all purposes a connecting chapter though do let me know what you think of the slight change of pace.
> 
> Unrelated note: anyone missing the smut?

 

You felt sick to your stomach. You thought you had seen a drama like this once, faced by a ring of nameless suits, at some dystopian hearing, awaiting judgement while attempting desperately to prove your identity. Or was your disarrayed memory confusing something else with the princess and the pauper?

“Mrs. Kaiba,” a lean gentleman, in a rather ill-fitted mauve suit which bordered on brown, addressed you emerging from the crowd. You wondered how such a rich shade of plum could be made to look so drab and corporate. He motioned towards the blood red package marked with calligraphy, gilded around the edges, in his hands, “Wild ginseng supplements. I don’t know if young people these days like these sorts of things but regardless, we think it will be excellent in your current condition.”

You offered a small nod of acknowledgment as he placed it over the nightstand.

“You’re a lot quieter than you usually are Mrs. Kaiba,” the stout gentleman who breathed peculiarly; huffing each time he exhaled continued, releasing a chuckle so contrived that it sent your blood curdling. His labored manner of speaking you concluded, having observed him in silence, was likely a result of how tightly wound his ice blue tie was around his plump neck. Perhaps it was cutting off blood flow, you rationalized. “We don’t bite, as I’m sure you know. Are you feeling quite alright?”

_Well that’s a stupid question to ask of someone who just woke up from a coma._

“Yes, I’m perfectly well,” you asserted breathily, suppressing the urge to deliver it with a shade of sarcasm.

“Oh come on,” he challenged, “I think we can all agree that’s a bit of an over exaggeration, seeing how you are right now.”

He appeared sickeningly overjoyed by the prospect, though at the same time, resentful.

You wouldn’t say anything, reserving yourself to complete silence, having learned over the years that unwavering silence possessed the capacity to unnerve the opposing party into oversharing unwittingly.

“Your condition kept your husband from us,” the gentleman on the verge of asphyxiation from an ill-advised fashion choice elucidated, “he insisted on remaining completely arrested within the confines of this room you know. We were all curious to see why our president was keeping his pretty, young wife locked away from all of us, especially considering he was always so eager to show you off. We were beginning to think something had happened to you, so we came to see for ourselves.”

_So that’s why they were here, they were here sniffing, like truffle hunting pigs._

You debated on an appropriate response.

“I appreciate your concern,” you settled for an ambiguous retort, “though I do wonder how Mr. Kaiba will receive this unannounced visit.”

“Mr. Kaiba?” a third director interjected, “I didn’t realize you addressed him that way.”

You swallowed thickly. “I think it’s hardly appropriate for me to disclose how I address him behind closed doors,” you were quick to backpedal.

The crooked grin which twisted the man’s lips afforded you the sensation of feeling maggots crawling under your skin, and while he opened his mouth to speak, the voice which accompanied it was severely mismatched.

“What the hell do you think you morons are doing here?” a sonorous voice thundered from behind, effectively parting the group of men. Your husband stomped through the intruding mass towards you with purposeful steps, towering above everyone, his voice was a maddened roar laced with venom, his expression menacing. “How dare you ambush my wife behind my back? If something were to happen to her in her current condition, who is willing to take responsibility?”

“Mr. – Mr. Kaiba,” the portly gentleman stuttered, his voice thick with fright the only sound punctuating the silence which had blanketed the bright room. “We thought you would be attending the board meeting today.”

“Are you always this idiotic or are you making a special effort today?” your husband inquired sardonically, standing by your bedside. “How am I supposed to hold a board meeting when half my directors are going behind my back and sneaking off here? Did you really think I wouldn’t notice when half the room sent their deputies?”

Their heads held forward, a dissonance of apologies and excuses muttered filling the space.

“Save it,” Kaiba growled, the entire room immediately falling silent once again, “Do you hear that? It’s the sound of no one caring for your pathetic excuses. Now get out of here while you still have positions to return to.”

The directors scrambled like rats in a sewer, before dispersing in all directions once in the corridoor. You vaguely registered a gentleman in black closing the door in their wake.

“Are you alright?” Kaiba demanded to know, gripping you firmly by the shoulders as he appraised you. You nodded faintly. “What did those bastards ask you?”

“Nothing of consequence,” you assured shakily, “they asked me how I am, why you haven’t let them see me since I woke up. Left that red ginseng thing on there –”

His eyes flew like darts towards the package, before he strode around the bed with haste, snatching it with unconcealed ire. Marching towards the door, and tearing it open with an intensity which you were convinced would surely unhinge the door, he tossed the package at someone, barking orders for it to be destroyed immediately. He slammed the door closed with a matched aggravation.

“The last thing I need is for this room to be bugged,” he explained, observing your bewildered expression which bordered on fear. “I shouldn’t have left you unprepared like that,” he spoke, returning to your side, “I’ll be having a word with the guards I left. Have you eaten?”

You shook your head, the rush of adrenaline still running thinly in your veins, shaking you ever so softly, “I woke up to this.”

…

“After the excitement this morning, I think you could use some fresh air,” Kaiba suggested at the conclusion of breakfast, studying your complexion slightly more drained of colour than usual.

You nodded faintly in agreement.

Shifting languidly across the bed, as you slung your feet over the edge collecting your slippers, he was already waiting, having crossed the distance around the bed with a few long strides. Indifferent to your protests, he slipped his arms under you, lifting you on to the wheelchair brought by a nurse to your bedside.

“The rooftop is more secure than the courtyards on the grounds,” he expressed, draping his navy suit jacket over your hospital gown.

“Oh,” you faltered, turning to face him as he moved to grip the handles, not having expected him to accompany you, “I didn’t think you’d be joining me, Mr. Kaiba.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that?” he abruptly barked, startling a nurse checking your chart inadvertently. He cleared his throat, repossessing his composure seeing your own alarmed expression. You mumbled an apology. “Shall we go?”

You refused to speak for the duration of the journey, or rather; you were subdued to silence under his constant, imposing presence behind you.

In spite of this, as you entered the rooftop garden, you were relieved to find the place void of other patients and guardians. As intimidated as you were of the volatile, young chairman, you would still rather not be subjected to tolerate the presence of strangers.

Your head falling towards the cloudless sky stretching above you in brilliant cornflower blue, you unconsciously reached up to shield your eyes of the sunshine raining down, though the rays still seeped through the gaps between your fingers. You tried to recall the last time you saw an open sky like this one.

Curving the wheelchair carefully over the winding paths paved precisely with cement squares, he navigated through the walls of tall reeds sprouting from the white marble spread between the walkways.

He brought you to a stop before the balcony, the city stretching below, seemingly endlessly, though you couldn’t quite see everything from where you sat. Before you, against the cement balcony, stalks of allium competed against tall green reeds for the attention of the sun, the curling fronds of fern twisting together with blushing foxglove stems.

He slid his arms under you once again, lifting you onto the metal bench facing the balcony, its twisting handles and backrest mimicking the fern fronds in front of you. You wouldn’t dispute him, not possessing the energy to cower should you inspire his ire.

Exhaling deeply, as if to relieve yourself of the suffocation you hadn’t realized you felt, boxed in by hospital walls, you stretched your limbs, feeling the tension knotted against your limbs loosen. He sat beside you.

“This is nice,” you quietly declared. A silence you weren’t entirely comfortable with stretched in the absence of his willingness to speak. “You’re not wearing your wedding ring today Mr. Kaiba,” you observed, in a bid to sever the aforementioned silence. You bit your lip as you realized how you had addressed him, though he made no motion to correct you.

Reaching over, he slipped his hand into the breast pocket of the suit jacket currently sitting on your shoulders, retrieving the ornate band. You discernibly flinched at the abrupt motion, conditioned reflexes overriding conscious thought. Again, though it was evident he noticed, he made no motion to address it.

He slipped the ring onto his finger before he responded, “Our marriage isn’t public knowledge. Only an engagement announcement was released. You wanted it this way, until the wedding was held.”

“I see.”

“Speaking of,” he continued stoically, “inside my jacket you should find a copy of our marriage registration. I have a copy of the pre-nup in my briefcase downstairs. You can review it later.”

Gingerly reaching into the pocket from which he had produced the wedding band, you drew a folded piece of paper. Unfolding the intricately gridded document, you glossed over the sections, “Husband; Seto Kaiba,” you softly read, “wife…” your eyes recognized your name scrawled in your handwriting, your signature below.

He briefly explained the specifics of your contract; the creation of the marital estate, agreements made on inheritance, division of assets in the _unlikely –_ as he called it, stressing the word - case of divorce.

You could feel the gravity of the situation seep through the bubble of denial you had subconsciously constructed for yourself. It felt surreal. It felt as if in an instant, both you future and your past had been snatched away.

From your peripheral, you noticed Kaiba produce a metal chain from the pocket of his slacks, which glinted in the corner of your eye as it caught the light. You maintained your gazed fixedly over the edge of the balcony.

He wrapped his fingers around your wrist, and you finally relented, turning your gaze to meet his. From his other hand cascaded a thin linked, gold bracelet adorned with a delicately fashioned charm in the center. The charm was flat, resembling a coin, its face an iridescent mother of pearl, with two bevelled, gold, four pointed stars overlapping each other, reminding you of the eight points of a compass. The charm held in its center a brilliant sapphire, reminiscent of the eye of his favourite dragon.

“I understand things are difficult for you,” he spoke in a deep husk, “I thought this would be fitting, given it resembles a compass.”

He released your wrist for a moment, preparing to fasten the bracelet around your wrist.

A moment lapsed in delayed thought before you snatched your wrist away, tucking it against your chest, rubbing the appendage as if he had somehow tainted it with his touch.

A glint of some emotion welled in his Arctic blue eyes for a fraction of a second before it scattered, giving way to the usual frost which was spread thickly over its surface.

“Do you not like it?” he inquired in a heavy tone.

“No,” you returned in a whisper, “it’s burdensome, accepting something like this from someone I hardly know.”

He groaned low in his throat, though it was obvious he had tried to restrain himself.

“Someone you hardly know,” he repeated, voice hardly producing itself above a strained whisper as he closed his fist around the bracelet.

You swallowed, gaze falling over your upturned palms on your lap. If through his previous gestures he had been trying to be forthcoming, he made no further attempts, silence being his forte.

Discomposed by his silence, you rose to your feet, intending to walk the scenically constructed rooftop, or less poetically, intending to escape the brewing hostility.

You rose, though you immediately fell forward, knees folding defiantly. It was clear you had misjudged your progress.

“Why would you do that?” Kaiba asked, diving forward, hooking his arms under the crooks of your shoulders before your knees made contact with the harsh cement. “You could have gotten seriously hurt.” Turning you to face him, appraising you with a careful eye, his grip which had slipped to your elbow was unrelenting.

“If I survived a car accident, I hardly think this fall would have left a mark.” Your words were bold, bordering defiant, though you made a point to hold your glare trained on his dress shoes.

“Except you almost didn’t,” he said, his voice a dark hiss. “I would like it if you stopped addressing what happened so lightly. These past weeks have been a living hell.” You held your head down, this time nodding in understanding, unable to dispute his sincerity. “Would you like to walk?”

You nodded again.

He slid your arm through his, supporting your weight as he led your steps. You counted the concrete tiles, taking note of the cracks which spread like spider webs through the stone squares; reminding you of something…cracks on glasses? Or was it a windshield that you recalled?  You couldn’t be sure, though you gathered your next thoughts that way.

“Except for one disconnected flashback, the closest memory I have is the spring before I entered senior year,” you declared softly, noticing how your slow strides had fallen into step with his, which he purposefully kept short. “There was a lot of cherry blossoms that year,” you said smiled with nostalgia. “I remember staying up really late.” You could feel his gaze pour over you at the sudden confession. “…high school,” you continued, almost losing your train of thought, “Though I don’t remember graduating. But I’m sure I did, considering I married you.” You paused in consideration. “Did I ever go to college?”

“No,” he brusquely responded, “what was the flashback?”

“I could have imagined it. I can’t be sure it was real. I was standing with you in a corridoor, the carpets were a deep blue, and right before it all went dark…” you swallowed your lips, light colour finding your cheeks, “you said, I’m here.”

He stopped without warning, tugging you backwards as you continued. You peered up, expression begging for an explanation for the abrupt standstill he brought you both to.

“You remember that?” he inquired with an edge to his tone, his furrowed brows and severe expression reading a clashing mixture of hope and desperation.

“Was it…real?”

“How long have you remembered that?” he demanded in a strained whisper.

“I- I’m not sure…yesterday morning I – ”

He wouldn’t wait to hear the end of your sentence, pulling you roughly by your shoulder, flush against him, embracing you with fervor.

“I was told,” you returned a question as he released you, “that I told you something right before my heart stopped for the second time. Something you couldn’t live with for the rest of your life, what was it?”

“Did Mokuba tell you that?”  You nodded faintly. “It doesn’t matter now, you’re here.”

“I want to know what it was,” you pressed.

“I rather not discuss it,” he denied, a degree sharper than you had been expecting.

“I – I’m sorry,” you stuttered, separating from him entirely, except for the firm hold he kept on your wrist as you slipped away. “From our conversations, and given that we were on a first name basis, I assumed…I assumed – I must have misjudged the intimacy of our relationship.” After all, you considered wryly, a detail he wouldn’t even disclose to his brother, why would he share with you?

“You’ve obviously misjudged a lot of things,” he agreed, and unexpectedly those words stung. “My reasons have nothing to do with how transparent our relationship is.”

You offered a stiff bow of the head in acknowledgement.

“Is there…anything else you remember?” he inquired after a moment’s hesitation, beginning to walk again.

“No,” you responded, before the words had hardly left him.

Silence ensued over the sunlit rooftop, and over the heads of alliums, your eyes drifting off towards the city; building block-like structures in steels and pastels which spread into the distant mountains. It all looked so familiar, but again not at all.

“I suppose you have to get back to work,” you murmured, though the silence never grew to be unbearable.

“Not this time.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind.”

…

“The roses,” you remembered, as he helped you sit back on the wheelchair, “I suppose I told you those were my favourites.”

“I suppose you can say that.”

You offered him a quizzical glance over your shoulder, though you wouldn’t probe.

 

Leaving the elevator, Kaiba brought you to an unannounced halt. A few yards ahead of you, a gentleman who appeared slightly too old to be called middle aged, offered a firm bow in your direction before approaching.

“Mr. Kaiba,” he curtly acknowledged with a nod of his head. “Mrs. Kaiba,” he extended his greeting to you, “it’s truly a relief to see you well. I heard the other directors visited you this morning, my apologies for not paying my respects sooner. My mother is currently receiving treatment for pneumonia and the whole affair has kept me occupied.”

“Yes they were here,” Kaiba spoke in a tone devoid of compassion or feeling, “they insisted on taking time away from an important meeting to hold a public demonstration of their sorely lacking comprehension skills.”

“Right of course, Mr. Kaiba didn’t wish for any visitors.”

“Right.”

“If you’d excuse me then,” the gentleman bowed, offering you his well wishes once more.

“Thank you,” you beamed, “I wish your mother well.” It took you a moment to process that your response may have been out of character, though he returned your smile, bowing.

“Thank you Mrs. Kaiba, it truly is wonderful to see you up again.”

You offered a light bow of the head as he passed.

…

Kaiba returned to your room in late afternoon, approaching you with heavy but quick steps, his face held a plain expression, though remnants of a scowl lingered, as it often did.

“I’m taking you home this evening,” he declared, “there are too many intruders and I can’t always keep the hospital on lockdown. It’s simply too vast this place for me to keep all the parameters guarded. The risk of you accidentally meeting someone you’ve previously been acquainted with is too high.” He studied your expression as you scrambled to register all the information he had apprised, eyes narrowing, “What is it?”

“I just – what about my treatment?” you asked.

“There’s nothing more they can do here for your memory,” he advised, walking around the bed to gather his scattered papers and laptop on the coffee table into his briefcase. “As for your physical therapy, I’ve arranged for a team of nurses and a pair of physical therapists to temporarily take residence at the mansion.” His explanation was punctuated by the sharp click of his briefcase as he locked it. “They’re the best money can buy,” he asserted, looking over his shoulder at you.

“Sounds like a waste of your money,” you mumbled, fidgeting with your fingers.

“I keep telling you,” he countered exasperatedly, “my money is never wasted on you.”

“I have my own,” you reminded him.

“And I vowed to take responsibility of you,” was all he said, storming out of the room again.

Upon his return, he was joined by one of the head physicians he had flown from Germany. His English was proficient, though he spoke with a heavy accent; his intonation drowning your comprehension skills with misleading pronunciations.     

“Mr. Kaiba has _strongly_ insisted that you be discharged tonight,” the physician informed as the aforementioned president strode to stand by your bedside. “Not to be repetitive,” you thought he said, “but your tests have all consistently been normal – though of course your blood report could be better – and as for your memory, that’s something unfortunately we can’t help with. We can suggest you continue the cognitive therapy you’ve though there’s no guarantee in-”

“You can’t be certain if it will ever come back?” you inquired, though it was more a statement, as if to complete his sentence.

“Unfortunately,” he spoke in deep husk, further weighed with his pronunciation, “for all we know, it could come back tomorrow, in a year, or…it may never will.”

“That’s enough,” Kaiba grunted, interrupting, though not soon enough.

“You can’t,” you faltered, the physician’s words weighing over you heavily as you struggled to digest them while forming your next thoughts, “hope to keep this from me forever Mr. Kaiba.” This earned you another discontented growl.

“Yes, well,” the doctor continued, turning he focus back over to your husband, “perhaps returning to your normal routine may help bring back some of the lost memories. Mr. Kaiba, if I may suggest, recreating events or even discussing them with your wife may offer results.”

“That’s it then?” Kaiba snapped. “Therapy and a walk down memory lane is all you got?”

The young physician faltered, clearing his throat. “Intimacy and physical connection may also help,” he offered.

“I think you’re misunderstanding our relationship,” you interjected, “intimacy is not something…we’ve had.”

Kaiba spared a glance in your direction, before the physician spoke again, perplexity evident in his tone.

“While you may not recall, you couldn’t be – ” Abruptly he stopped, eyes cautiously flickering over to Kaiba, who’s eyes reminded you of sharpened diamonds prepared to bore holes into the physician.

“I couldn’t be what?” you questioned from what you had gathered from his previous statement amongst the obscurity of his accent.

He vehemently shook his head, “You’re free to take her home, Mr. Kaiba.”

The taciturn gentleman merely grunted, bidding the doctor farewell, turning to you.

“What was he talking about?” you asked your husband, though his lips remained a severe line, adamant on not elucidating.

…

His silence persisted through the ride as he drove you ‘home,’ while you remained transfixed, glazed eyes observing the surroundings which never grew to be familiar. A passive thought unrelentingly insisted that you ask him to take you home, because this wasn’t home, though it was just that; passive, and unassertive, so you said nothing.

The imposing estate which stood proud, guarded by tall stone walls and wrought iron gates, succeeded in making all the other ostentatiously constructed mansions of the affluent neighbourhood feel tatty. In spite of the grandeur, it felt cold and barren, though you couldn’t help but wonder what effect children would have on these dreary halls, his children; yours, with him.

You shuddered at the thought, contemplating what roots such an invasive thought held, but again you let your mind wander, he was your husband, and he was undeniably attractive, sometimes distractingly so, and eventually, if this marriage continued, you would be required to produce an heir to continue both your families. You could feel warmth rushing to your face. You’re such a girl, you berated yourself.

“What’s with you?” Kaiba’s naturally scathing tone penetrated your imagination which clearly held no boundaries, and you shook your head, maintaining a thousand yard stare down the blue carpeted hallway as you walked his arm anchored around your small form, supporting you. “You never really bothered learning the ins and outs of the mansion,” he gruffly informed, “so there’s not much to relearn there. If you have anywhere you need to go, if I’m home, always ask me, if not, ask a maid. I’ll be sure to show you the basic routes before I leave for work.” Again you nodded, the reality of your marriage beginning to sink through in all its life-altering consequence. “The mansion is guarded by a team of highly trained security personnel around the clock,” he continued to apprise; “I will give you the extensions to their team leads. The Kaiba family employs a private army, and while not all of them are called to report at all times, I will have a unit available to you if a situation should arise.”

“Mr. Kaiba, aren’t you…overdoing it…a bit?” you hesitantly queried, and he shook his head decisively.

“I rather not take chances with you.”

“But a private army is…”

“Necessary,” he completed your sentence. His tone unambiguously conveyed that his words were final.

Leading you through a door on the third floor, he explained this to be the bedroom the two of you shared. The room is white; tall white walls meeting a white ceiling where floral carvings of white plaster stretch. The room is rather bare; a high, emperor sized bed fit for an emperor occupied the far corner of the grand room, the white headboard and footboard intricately adorned with embossed carvings reflecting those on the ceiling, rich silk comforters of blue and white cascaded over the edges. There was a large set of windows by the bed, and another set of French windows beside them leading to what you assumed was a balcony. The room was rather bare; though in every definition imperial; from the craftsmanship of the French settees tucked into the corner of the room as you entered to the masterfully strung crystals of the chandelier looming over the bed, to the carvings on the legs of the nightstands, it was all exquisite...it was perfectly him. Yet you hated it; thoroughly, the emptiness of it, the lack of colour. There was no sign of living in this space; all the details too carefully measured, too perfect.

You were a very tidy person by nature and yet this...this was...it was a confirmation; it was a confirmation of your marriage, confirmation of change, confirmation of all the feelings of dread you had denied. The room left no nooks for you to nurture your denial. You slowly came to realize as you took your first steps in that it wasn’t the decoration you loathed, it was what the room stood for. If the bedroom you shared with your husband wasn’t the ultimate symbol of you marriage, at least in that moment, you couldn’t be sure what was.

“You were very particular about which side you slept on,” Kaiba disclosed, his tone clearly mocking your former habits, perhaps even containing light humour. “And this was your side.”

“Do you?” you inquired, standing over the bed. Just the presence of the bed screamed intimacy in a way you weren’t prepared to be with him.

“I could care less. I didn’t exactly have a side before you came along.”

“Right.”

“Are you feeling alright?” he questioned you, reaching for your forehead, noticing your ominous glare fallen over the sheets.

“Could you point me towards the bathroom?” you asked, batting his hand away with your forearm, desperately hoping there was one in the room. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Lifting you without sparing another though, he brought you into the bathroom, turning the lights on for you.

Having heaved the contents of your stomach over the toilet, he watched over you as you washed your hands. Your eyes wandered over to the pair of pink and blue toothbrushes huddled together against the mirror on the corner of the counter. Smiling wryly, you dried your hands.

“I was beginning to wonder when that would kick in,” Kaiba appeared to think out loud.

“I’m sorry?”

“You…developed acid reflux.”

Following him back into the bedroom, intending to question him about your condition, you were forced to hold your curiosity as the ringing of his phone interrupted you.

Reaching into the pocket of his khaki trench coat, he retrieved his phone. Allowing it to ring, he lifted you once again, before setting you against the edge of the bed. Answered, he excused himself from the room.

Strangely, it didn’t feel it was your place. You could accept that Seto Kaiba was married; you could accept that he had a wife, though the concept of you being that aforementioned wife was nonsensical. You must have heard the name Mrs. Kaiba called a thousand times but at best, within the bowels of this imposing household, you felt like his mistress, so it was understandable why you felt displaced on his bed. It was so painfully obvious that this was the words of your step-mother carving your thoughts, but you were defenseless against it.

You shook your head absently, you couldn’t be married. You had your whole life ahead of you. You had wanted to travel, fall in love, have a home where someone was waiting for you to return to at the end of the workday, for once in your life receive affection; unconditional affection so this – _what was this_? Seto Kaiba was the antithesis of love, warmth and affection. You _just_ couldn’t be here.

In that moment all that you were told he had done for you over the past weeks escaped you and your husband returned to find you an inconsolable, sobbing pile over the sheets.

“What’s the matter?” he demanded, rushing to your side, his hand slipping over your stomach as he attempted to lift you, “are you in pain?”

You shook your head, “I can’t be married to you,” you repeated as if it was a prayer, “I can’t be your wife - you’re teriffying.”

This was déjà vu for the young president, and yet it was infinitely more harrowing this time.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think :)


	29. The Scent Of Magnolia In The Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you I've hurt with the anguish Seto is currently experiencing and the angst in general, let me know if this chapter soothe it to some extent. And if the dream the reader had confuses any of you, and I hope it does...good :D 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy :)

 

“I’m terrifying...?” his voice was so low it hardly produced itself above a whisper. He had to fight the compulsion to raise his voice. “What about me is terrifying? I’ll change for you, whatever it is.”

“Your eyes,” you hysterically disclosed. You couldn’t exactly have him gorge those out.

He appeared nonplussed for a moment, perhaps even taken aback behind that stoic mask. He released a laboured sigh, drawing you to into himself to hold you.

“We are doing this again. Look, you told me once that I was your companion in life, a strong pillar in your life,” he reminisced, “Whatever I am, I’m that way to protect you. I’m still that same person, and though you may not remember so are you.” You peered up at him through reddened eyes, and he received your attention as a cue to continue. “You told me,” he husked, “that you loved me enough to give me children.”

“Children?” you shrieked, “You want me to give you children?”

“Perhaps this wasn’t the best time to bring that up,” Kaiba muttered, though more to himself.

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing,” he dismissed, growing agitated. “This isn’t good for...you. What will it take for you to stop...do you want to watch something, go somewhere - anything?”

Nothing. Nothing would console you.

You had briefly considered asking for an annulment, potentially a divorce, but the moment you had left the confines of the hospital, those thoughts had dispersed. The world had changed unrecognizably over the past four, perhaps five years; buildings stood in places where they hadn’t before, and they no longer stood in places they did, so what effect would time have had on people? Would Soryu recognize you, had you two kept in touch? The principle was the same for everyone; you were fundamentally in a different point in your existence in comparison to them, and ultimately you wondered, besides your husband, if there had been anyone else waiting for you to come home. No one else had come to visit you at the hospital, though that could easily have been your husband’s power at play.

If however, he was the only person your former self had chosen to share your life with, even if marginally; the thought of Kaiba being the only person you had in your life was frightening.

“Would you like to go grocery shopping?” he blurted out, his gaze contorted in desperation.

“What?” you returned bewildered.

“You - never mind,” he declared brooding, “let’s get you something to eat, I instructed the chef to make pizza.”

“I don’t like pizza,” you lied stubbornly.

“Yes you do.”

“I do,” your sobs intensified, somehow even more aggravated that he knew.

Tightening his embrace, he hushed you. You noticed how inviting his scent was. You had never imagined it would be.

“I’ll do anything you ask,” he confessed in a rolling growl, his jaw digging into your crown, “just don’t leave me again like that.”

He sounded so vulnerable, his stormy blue eyes weighed with heart wrenching desperation in a way that it was difficult to convince yourself this was the same man you had grown afraid of all those years ago.

Your eyes flickering between his stormy pools of blue, you reached a hand up to his cheek. You couldn’t be sure what came over you as you raised yourself up, intoxicated by his scent, closing your lips over his. It was almost as if the need came from a deeper place of instinct than your memory; the need to console him.

He tasted of coffee, you faintly registered, strong, black coffee. The soft rustle of his jacket sleeves as he tightened his hold around you fell over your ear as he leaned in. He kissed back with an insatiable fervour, whispering how much he had missed you against your lips darkened with his saliva.

Suddenly, it wasn’t enough, a meager kiss on the lips, no matter how passionate, just wasn’t enough. He grew greedy, craving his wife more and more. He tore his trench coat away from his burning skin, discarding it over the bed. Forcing you on your back, he clambered over you; leaving open mouth kisses over your face, your neck, the dip in your clavicles. It still wasn’t enough.

His lips returned to yours, and you kissed him ardently.

There had been moments; moments of torment, over the past few days, where Kaiba had grown convinced he would never be able to touch you this way again, so this felt surreal.

Lost in a heady fit, he undid the wrap of your dress, allowing the white chiffon to fall over the sheets. His lips dove for your bare skin and there was an electrifying sensation of being reanimated, within you.

You couldn’t be sure what you were expecting, but it was then that your arms shot up to his chest, urging him to stop. Folding your arms between your bodies, he pressed himself against you, maddened by your scent, by your touch, by your soft breath breaking against his skin.

“Please,” you whimpered, “please stop.”

He must have lost his mind for a moment, he thought as your frightened voice penetrated his trance. Slipping his arms under you, he pulled you into his chest as he fell beside you.

“You don’t want me like this yet,” he husked in your ear, “Forgive me, I wasn’t trying to force myself on you, I just missed you.” You nodded against his chest, slightly petrified. “I’m your husband, your guardian, and if you feel I’m terrifying, I’ve come to be that way to protect the people I care about...Mokuba then, and now you. I would never turn my power against you.”

You allowed yourself to mull over his words in silence.

“Do you ever see yourself in...love?” you eventually asked him. “Not necessarily with me, just...” You must have gone mad, asking a man like Seto Kaiba if he would ever fall in love. You brought yourself to retract the frivolous inquiry, but his answer was a split second quicker.

“How could you ask that in the future tense after seeing all that I’m willing to do for you now?”

There was a tightness in your chest. “What?”

“Stupid girl, I’m telling you I love you.” His words met a cold silence. “I’m telling you that I’m yours,” he added, “and you can try to push me away all you want, but I’m not easily discouraged.”

“I wasn’t going to,” you mumbled, “...push you away. I’m starting to realize that you’re all I know anymore.”

Which was saying an awful lot, considering you knew nothing of him at all. You couldn’t discern his truths from his lies, though you liked to very strongly believe that he hasn’t lied to you, at least so far.

“That’ll change,” he murmured, referring to your last words, “but I’ll still be here.”

You hummed, letting his deep register soothe you. You were still wary of him, wary of Seto Kaiba, though your husband seemed a different man entirely.

“Do you think I could sleep in a different room?” you inquired hesitantly, “...at least for now.”

His arm draped over your back slipped from you. Pulling away slightly, you found yourself under his intense scrutiny.

 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. That would cause the household staff to be suspicious and could potentially spread rumours to the board.” You nodded in understanding, expression growing grim. “This won’t happen again,” he assured, “Despite what you may think, it _is_ safer for you to stay with me.”

“Safer in what sense?”

He would only shake his head, once again denying you clarity.

...

Having returned from dinner, you clung on defiantly to the edge of the bed, the silk comforters rolled up behind you, marking the border which you had very firmly advised your husband to not cross.

“You’re going to fall,” Kaiba scolded, reaching over the pile of blue and ivory dividing the both of you.

“I’ll be fine, don’t touch me,” you groused, deflecting his arm.

Despite the frustration the situation inspired, Kaiba found himself chuckling as he pulled himself up to support his weight against his elbow, intending to watch over you, prepared to catch you should you toss yourself accidentally over the edge. Eventually, you fell asleep balanced against the edge, and he draped the coverlet over the both of you, before gently drawing you towards the centre of the bed. It was good enough, he told himself, just being able to sleep in the same bed with you.

He was woken in the middle of the night to familiar whimpering, finding you curled completely against his chest, while attempting to cling closer still into him. Eyes still heavily weighed by sleep, he allowed a genuine smile, one the world would never see on him; grace his lips as he watched; your fingers clawing against his shirt, murmuring absolute nonsense as you nuzzled your face into his chest. He observed how you still fit him perfectly, as he tugged the flimsy fabric of your silk nightgown dipping around your chest, exposing you indecently, back up to cover you. Though, it wasn’t the physical intimacy which afforded him the sensation of his whole being lifting, it was the one word in your train of gibberish; the discernible island amongst a sea of nonsensical mumbling which made him rub the sleep out of his eye, and hold you closer.

“Seto,” you were repeating his name as if a prayer. “Hold me,” you would occasionally whimper.

He couldn’t be sure when he had heard you call him by his name last, and he didn’t know if he ever would, at least, for a very long time; longer than he could bear, surely. He found himself wishing the moment would last a second longer, then another. He desperately wished to know what was running through your mind, if you were remembering, if he in your dreams; the memory you held of him loved you enough to hold you the way he was. He wondered if you would suddenly wake up, and if just like that, the nightmare would be over, and just as he had wished, you opened your eyes.

A moment lapsed before your words made sense to him. You had called his name again, thought it was what had followed responsible for his bemusement.  

“Seto,” you had murmured, shaking him urgently as you opened your eyes, “the baby is crying.”

Surely, this was the remnants of some dream you were escaping.

“What did you say?”

“I – I don’t know, I thought we had a baby, there was a – there was a crib right there and – ” you rambled disjointedly, peering over at a spot past your shoulder to where the imaginary white crib had stood until moments ago. Your eyes flickered back to meet quizzical, electric blue eyes attempting to make sense of your ramblings. “We don’t have a baby, do we?”

“Not yet,” he offered with narrowed eyes, “what have you remembered?”

“Was there something I’m supposed to –”

“No,” he gruffly interrupted.

“I can still hear it,” you urged in distress, “is there a child somewhere in this manor?”

“We are the only ones living here besides the household staff, and as far as I’m concerned none of them have children that young. There’s also no reason for any of them to bring one in, even if they did.”

Your breathing had grown shallow and erratic; you couldn’t remember anymore what your dream had reminded you, and the eerie crying of an infant which the wind stealing in through the balcony carried was chilling.

You supposed this was one of the plights of living in such an old mansion.

“Do you not hear that?” you asked Kaiba, who seemed entirely perplexed.

“Hear what?” he snapped unintentionally, and you recoiled, shaking your head.

You turned away from him, but your skin continued to prickle, the howling of the wind outside and the eerie wailing resonating from – you assumed - somewhere within the bowels of the manor drowning you in fright.

“Would you hold me?” you squeaked, tightly drawing your eyes shut. There was a moment of hesitation, before the mattress behind you shifted under his weight as you felt him press himself against you, his heavy arm draping over your waist, though you noticed he was careful to not allow the weight to be felt. His other arm slid under you, snaking around your form.

“Would you like to keep the lights on?” he husked in your ear and you squealed no.

…

When you awoke the following morning, it was light outside; you could tell from the silver borders gleaming through the gaps in the heavy blue curtains. The room though was still bathed in the obscurity of darkness, only lifted by dim lamplight.

There was a familiar scent of magnolia drifting in from the garden, bird chirrping on distant branches.

“Did you sleep well?” an almost unrecognizably raspy voice greeted, startling you. You were facing him again, and he was still holding you.

“I think so,” you offered in a whisper, calculating how to tactically slip from his embrace without offending him.

A thought occurred to you, supposing that amongst the women of the country, waking up to Seto Kaiba, his silky hair dishevelled, tousling fringe falling into his heavy blue eyes which were at once clear while holding electrical storms, would be considered a privilege fit for saving a nation. You couldn’t with a conscience deny he was the most striking man you had ever laid eyes upon, with his chiselled jaw and alabaster complexion…it dawned on you that in the absence of his signature scowl, he was much easier to admire.

“Like something you see?” he husked, breaking you from your trance.

Of course, what good is beauty when you have a rotten personality, you reminded yourself, though your conscience which insisted on also reminding you how devoted he had been in tending to you refused to be silenced.

Given your wit, and your wounded pride, a scathing remark was in order, and in spite of your wariness of him, you would definitely have delivered, if it hadn’t been for the intolerable compulsion to heave your guts up forcing you to be elsewhere.

Tearing yourself away from him without explanation you swung your legs off the edge of the bed, only reminded once you had secured your feet on the ground, the current condition of your legs.  

Your knees folded, as they had many times prior, meeting the hard marble with a resonating crack.

“If you needed to go somewhere, I think I told you to tell me,” he scolded, throwing the blanket away from him and stalking around the bed.

One arm anchored against the ground, the other clasped over your mouth, you wondered how he expected you to speak.

Lifting you, he carried you as he had the evening before.

 

“What reflux is this brutal first thing in the morning?” you muttered to yourself, audible enough to be heard by the brooding gentleman leaned against the doorframe as you rinsed your palate of the rancid aftertaste. “And do I not have medication?”

“I doubt that’ll help at this point,” he declared uncrossing his arms as he reached for his toothbrush.

“Then I clearly need an updated prescription.”

“Somehow I don’t think that will help either,” he asserted with concerning confidence, twisting the tube of toothpaste over the bristles.

“Something must,” you persisted and he grunted.

“Breakfast.”

…

Having observed how dinner had proceeded last night, and now sitting at the breakfast table, you concluded that meals at the Kaiba mansion would always be an _affair;_ always an unnecessarily extravagant one.

Pizza was never _just_ pizza; it was seventeen different varieties with edible flowers sprinkled over wagyu beef and designs painted over flatbread with stalks of leeks and olive oil. Breakfast was no different.

“You’re not eating,” he remarked, observing how you idly stirred your bowl of scallop soup, blankly looking over the collection of soups and side dishes, one noticeable staple of any Japanese meal missing.

“Do you have something against rice?” you inquired and he scowled.

“You say it makes your reflux worse in the morning,” he blandly returned.

“That makes no sense, I said that?”

He grunted ambiguously, as if avoiding your question.

Following breakfast, he led you to his study, though you were using the term ‘led’ rather loosely. The mansion contained no elevators, leaving all movement between floors to be done on foot. Wheelchairs were useless and trekking between several stories on crutches was murder on your shoulders, but you were beginning to feel possible shoulder dislocation was tolerable in comparison to being carried from room to room by Kaiba.

Closing the door of the study behind him, he tossed what appeared to be a metallic marble into the air before him. The sphere unsheathed in midair, transforming into a blinding orb of neon blue as it fell to the ground. From its surface scattered hundreds of screen projections, illuminating the study in a soft glow as they manifested, suspended before you.

Setting you down, Kaiba handed you your crutches, before marching towards the multiplying screens.

“I can’t return you your memories, but I can give you every fact and data there is to know about your life,” he announced, moving the holographic screens with a touch of his fingertips.

You stood in awe, hunched over the pair of uncomfortable apparatuses, eyes studying the hundreds, possibly thousands of faces flashing on the screens which multiplied endlessly, fine lines of data running like movie credits besides the pictures.

“What is all this?”

“I developed an AI to detect every person of consequence you’ve come to be acquainted with in the past five years, classing them by order of importance, cross classified through how likely you are to meet them as well as how frequently you meet them on a daily basis. I’ve mapped out all meetings of significance, your interactions with them – in other words why you need to know them, what you knew of them and what they know of you. Of course, I can’t account for every conversation you’ve ever had, but this should give you something to go off of. There are also files here on how you’ve lived for the past five years; projects, corporate strategies, everything.”

“Oh my god,” you gasped, “what – what do you want me to do with this information?”

“Study it, commit it to memory, engrave their faces into your brain,” he ordered stonily. “Like me, you have photographic memory, use it. They can never know our weaknesses.”

“There must be thousands of files here,” you whispered in dejection, flicking at a screen which had drifted over, “even with a photographic memory…”

“I don’t expect you to memorize everything, that’s why I classed it. I programmed this in the form of an app into your phone. Keep it running at all times, it has vocal recognition,” he explained, handing you a futuristic device you assumed was a phone, “and will be able to tell you who you are speaking to, even when your phone is locked.”

“Isn’t this misuse of official Kaiba Corp. technology?”

“I _programmed_ this for you,” he corrected, “also, I am the CEO of this corporation, and as such, how I choose to utilize what I build is completely up to my discretion.”

“My goodness,” you repeated, “thank you…for doing all of this for me.”

Walking to tower over you, he appraised you with a critical eye, almost as if he was memorizing every detail of your face as he brushed the stray wisps of hair back over your ear. “Anything for you,” he husked, his eyes flickering between yours for a long moment.

Stepping away, he proceeded to explain how the technology was to be used.

He did not go to work once again, and upon being asked, he extended that until you could hold a conversation without his constant guidance and intervening, and most importantly without exposing yourself, he would stay.

As mid-morning approached, he had settled into his desk, furiously typing away at his laptop, occasionally, unbeknownst to you, stealing glances of you as you sat in the middle of his study, your legs crossed, writing or rather re-writing into your memory, who you were and what life you had lived. At the edge of your consciousness, you felt like a fraud.

Glancing between recent news articles of you, one particular drew your attention over the scores detailing your accident.

"I gave up the role of Empress Shi for you?" You questioned disbelievingly, eyes unable to tear away from the screen floating in front of you, "whoever I must have been, she must have really loved you," you declared, voice gradually descending to a whisper as you rose to your feet, "I must have really loved you."

Over your shoulder, you watched his expression contort in a mixture of confusion and you couldn't be sure, but possibly pain.

"What?"

"I've wanted to play this role since reading the novel when I was little. A long time ago when I was - I'm not sure if I've told you how I grew up," you hesitated, biting your lip. "Empress Shi was everything I couldn't be back then.” You smiled wryly, before composing yourself. "But then again, which actress on this side of the planet didn't want to play the role."

He walked around his desk, and moments later you felt a pair of arms wrap around you, weighing your shoulders down.

"I like you better this way," he husked, "you're honest with me."

"Was I not...before?"

His silence didn't offer you any clarity.

"I didn't speak Japanese very well back then, and my Chinese was weak so I had a maid sneak the English translations of the books in," you continued, "though I never found out how the last one ended until a few years ago."

"Why was that?" He asked.

"My step mother found out, and didn't like that. Said my mind was being poisoned by literature carrying foreign propaganda. The wounds didn't heal pretty."

"Kingdoms of the Sun doesn't have political propaganda that would be of any direct consequence in the modern day, it's a war chronicle from the twelfth century," he questioned.

"Well she wouldn't know, she's never picked up a book in her life," you paused considering his words. "You've read it?"

He grunted in response.

"It's also a romance novel," you smiled, and you could feel him stiffen.

 

"I know what that's like," he confessed.

It took you a moment to comprehend the vague statement.

"You do?"

He offered a low hum in response, "my brother brought a card to me like that once."

You hadn't fathomed Seto Kaiba to be a man that was so forthcoming, and perhaps he wasn't. You began to question just how intimate your relationship had grown to be with him, with this man that Japan held with such reverence.

"Do you still have it?"

"I gave it to you."

"You...what?"

"Not exactly what he gave me, but the real version of it."

You had expected such a gesture to be a burden, especially since you didn't feel any deep affection for him.

You had expected to have to re-learn all that you were before, or rather all what you'd grown to be after the date your memory had ceased. You had expected to learn all that he meant to you, but it seemed as if somewhere in all your splintered memories, while you did not _know_ how you felt for him, perhaps you had never stopped _feeling_ what you felt.

"Do you still want to be with me? I can't remember anything about you, and I don't know if I ever will. I can't promise to feel the same way. I don't want to waste your time."

Seto Kaiba's time was not to be wasted.

"Where would I go? I'm willing to wait. Besides, you're hardly a waste of my time."

You turned around hesitantly, arms slipping around his back. It felt strange and yet familiar, holding him.

He returned your embrace.

"How far did we go?"

"What?"

You knew your question had been vague, intentionally so. You didn't feel comfortable elaborating further.

"Physically, intimately," you uttered in a murmur, reluctantly.

"You gave me your virginity, if that's what you wanted to know," he offered gruffly.

You attempted to separate yourself, eyes growing wide, though his arms held you in place.

"You seem uncomfortable," he observed, peering down at you.

"That I gave a strange man my -" you faltered for an instance, "my virginity, yes it makes me uncomfortable," you admitted.

"We aren't strangers," he sighed exasperatedly. "I'm your husband, and you asked for it."

Your face flushed at the declaration.

"I...asked...for it?"

He chuckled darkly, pulling you closer.

"Over and over," he purred tauntingly in your ear.

"Stop that," you hissed.

You missed the ghost of a smile which found his lips as he felt the vaguest sensation of familiarity and intimacy he was accustomed to in your relationship return.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts :)


	30. Bucket List No. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, for all you hopeless romantics craving fluff...here, there's nothing but fluff here. 
> 
> Enjoy, and let me know if you're finally satisfied so that I may steer this plot back on to the road XD

 

“Do you think I could take a break from this, I think I need to go lie down,” you inquired meekly.

“I’m not holding you captive here,” he chuckled, releasing you. “Go ahead, I’ll collect my laptop and be right behind you,” he said, offering your crutches.

“No,” you disputed before the words had left him, “I want to be alone.” He appeared vaguely offended by the request. “I…would like to be alone,” you rephrased, your gaze falling to the ground.

“If that’s what you want,” he yielded, “would you like me to help you there?”

“The bedroom is on the same floor, I’ll be fine,” you politely declined.

…

Sauntering through the open French windows, you found yourself on the half-moon, stone balcony; the white drapes fluttering in the wind had seemed so welcoming.

Sitting on an elaborately carved, white deck chair, you watched a gardener planting vines of climbing English roses below, while another trimmed the twisting branches of a nearby maple tree, the whistling wind insisting on complicating the task.

It was too perfect, too serene, this life he had insisted was yours, this house, the garden surrounding it, even to some extent your husband. You wondered about your career, having learned the drama you were casted the lead for had begun filming already, shooting all the scenes you weren’t in until you recovered enough to join, and that your corporation hadn’t fallen off its hinges in your absence. You wondered how your life wasn’t the warzone you remembered…or was this the demilitarized zone your husband had constructed for you?

You absently observed the young gardener battling the shrub of catmint while preparing the soil for the collection of blossoming hollyhock and foxglove plants sitting behind her in pots.

Collecting your crutches you stood, because the wind had been so inviting, because the green grass paving the garden had been so inviting.

Gathering the white linen dress, which’s broderie Anglais hem grazed your ankle, into your fist, you limped across the green grass your eyes had been feasting on from the balcony. You kicked off your indoor slippers as you left the door, a rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins at the accomplishment of having successfully defeated six flights of stairs; three stories without losing a body part.

The gardeners rushed to rise to their feet as your presence was known, falling to bow to you at ninety degrees, while simultaneously calling your name, “Good morning Mrs. Kaiba,” as if members of an organized crime syndicate. You couldn’t be sure why you always drew that parallel when people bowed that way; likely your perception of how Soryu was received by his underlings playing a part.

Your face had flushed; you offered a bright smile in return, elated by the exhilaration of having accomplished something on your own after days of being tended to.

Throwing aside your crutches as you approached the young gardener sprawled over her bed of English blooms which was still a working progress under the grand oak tree – neighbouring the maple -   you clumsily allowed your knees to meet the open soil. The smell of freshly turned soil was invigorating to your senses.

Her eyes swelled to the size of saucers at your company, and they continued to grow, to dimensions you didn’t believe they could as you picked up a discarded trowel and pair of gloves, asking her what needed to be done.

No sooner than a full five minutes following her having explained to you how it was supposed to be done, and you turned the earth a handful of times, removing pebbles and grassy weeds, did a matronly woman dressed in a maid’s outfit come galloping out the door where you had discarded your slippers, frantically calling your name, reminding you of a chicken with her head cut off.

Hooking her arms under your shoulders she lifted you to your feet, dusting off your white dress now stained a faded russet.

“Mrs. Kaiba,” the stout woman sputtered in a pitch which was at once piping as well as abrasive, her sharp intonations scathing to your ear, “you can’t be out here in your current condition. Mr. Kaiba will be furious if he found out, oh dear, oh dear.”

And no sooner had his name left her mouth; he too stormed out of the door as if on cue, his duster jacket bellowing behind him as if to accentuate his ire.

“You know what they say about Beetlejuice,” you rolled your eyes, still in her clutches.

“Have you lost your mind? I thought you said you wanted to lie down,” he reproached, reaching to support you, while the maid stepped back, her head bowed deeply as she did. The gardeners also paused what they were doing, offering him their respects.

“What’s the big deal Seto?” you forced yourself to use his first name, being under the scrutiny of many inquisitive eyes, “I just thought helping out here would be calming somehow.”

He seemed to stumble over the name for a moment, before recovering his composure.

He growled your name, “Are you a child? Am I babysitting some child? You could seriously hurt yourself out here.”

“Hurt myself how? This isn’t the outback. It’s not like I’m sick. If anything, this counts as physical therapy – hand-eye coordination,” you pointed the garden fork in your hand at him.

His flinty gaze revealed to you that he was far from impressed.

“You’re not sick, you’re –” he faltered, clearing his throat, “get back in the house.”

It was strange, everyone’s gaze suddenly fell downwards again at those words, it was that sensation you get when you were surrounded by a room full of people who all knew some grand secret only you were oblivious to.

“What?” you laughed, “do I have some terminal autoimmune disease that I don’t know about?”

“It’s nothing like that,” Kaiba sternly dismissed. “Don’t even joke about things like that.”

“I just – it’s so nice being out here,” you pleaded, hoping to reason, “I’m just sitting here, playing with dirt, I’m not going to get hurt. Please let me stay out here.”

“Fine,” he surrendered to your imploring, albeit through gritted teeth, “but I’ll be keeping an eye on you from the balcony. Don’t do anything stupid.”

You nodded in understanding.

…

A few hours on, your knees were starting to ache from being folded in the same position, the foxglove stalks now towering before you around the old oak.

Your eyes drifted to the flowerbed over, looking at the pink peonies surrounding the heads of allium.

“Do you think it will be alright if I pick some of those?” you inquired of the young girl kneeled beside you, her head in the catmints once again. “I think our bedroom could use some colour.”

“They’re your flowers Mrs. Kaiba,” she responded, “you can do as you please with them.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well I just meant,” she fumbled with her gloves, likely fearing she had given you the wrong answer, “this whole estate belongs to Mr. Kaiba and you being married to him I just figured, that everything was also yours.”

“That’s one way of looking at things I suppose,” you mumbled in return, that sensation of feeling incredibly small within the walls of the mansion alleviating, as you felt a sense of ownership overcome you.

Staggering to your feet, you supported yourself on one crutch, the other hand fishing a pair of snipping shears from the basket of garden hand tools.

Cutting a couple dozen or so peonies, some the size of a small head of cabbage, the others still full buds, the stems weighed heavily against the crook of your elbow. A maid met you at the door, relieving you of the heavy bouquet of blooms. Another joined you with a Ming vase as you entered your bedroom. You instructed for her to bring another vase, an identical one.

“What are you doing?” your husband inquired, entering from the balcony, observing you with a strange gaze as you trimmed the stalks, the peonies gathered in a pile over the coffee table.

You sorted them into a sensible arrangement in each of the vases, before picking one up, and attempting to carry it towards the bed.

“Where do you want these?” Kaiba intervened before the maids could offer to help.

“The nightstands,” you advised.

You were almost doubtful whether the nightstands would accommodate vases of that size given how much space the crystal lamps already occupied, but it seemed to fit perfectly.

The maids were soon dismissed, and Kaiba turned to you curiously. “What inspired this?”

“You talk as if I’ve never done something like this around here.”

“You haven’t,” he affirmed.

“Am I stepping on your toes?” you bit your lower lip, gaze cast down as you often found yourself doing.

“No, I feel you’re finally taking ownership of your role as the lady of this household,” he gruffly commended, “though I would prefer it if you paced yourself.”

“I will.”

“And you could stand to be less formal.”

…

Kaiba came searching for you that evening to find you reading against one of the perfectly manicured hedges which lined the driveway and a greater part of the front garden, speckles of fuchsia and purple scattered about you as fragrant phlox and geranium buds, like the rest of the mansion gardens, awaited impatiently, on the verge of breaking fully into the summer season.

“It’s too cold to be out here wearing that,” he advised, draping his jacket over the long sleeves of your dress. “Besides, it’s time for dinner.”

“Dinner? I didn’t realize it was that late already.”

“It’s half five,” he enlightened.

“Isn’t it a little too early for dinner then?” you inquired, dusting off your stained white dress as you stood.

“You’ll see why. You’re a mess,” he chuckled lightly, appraising your rugged appearance; hair bound in a dishevelled ponytail, wellingtons crusted with mud. He found this appearance which he regarded rather unorthodox for you who was always the epitome of proper, unexpectedly endearing. He almost felt honoured, to have experienced you in this light, it felt intimate, as if he was being allowed into a part of you the rest of the world would never see.

He wiped the streak of dried dirt across your cheek.

“I’ll clean myself up before dinner,” you suggested embarrassed, offering him a quick bow out of habit before setting off towards the mansion, though it could have almost been dubbed a duck; the clumsy manner the crutches allows.

…

Freshly changed into a white linen nightgown, you wondered yourself as he helped guide you into the kitchen, what your obsession was with puffy sleeved, nightgowns reminiscent of the regency period.

Entering the massive, cracked-marble surfaced kitchen decorated in hues of ash and ivory, adjoined to the casual dining space, it was at once open and well illuminated, though also colourless and grim. The wrought iron chandelier hanging over the polished marble island which occupied the center of the space hardly helped in alleviating the feeling of being in an open-concept dungeon.

You observed the kitchen was unoccupied; you had expected kitchen staff and maids to be rushing about.

“I had them leave early for the night,” he responded to the question you had not raised. “This was the original kitchen that was built for the mansion,” he went on to elaborate, “later another, a commercial one was added to cater soirees, balls and other events held here.”

“And why exactly are _we_ in here?”

“Dinner,” he vaguely offered.

Holding a quizzical brow, you hoped your silence would elicit a response; no such luck. Retrieving his phone from the pocket of his slacks, his eyes scanned the screen, lines forming between his brows the more he read.

Wordlessly, almost mechanically, he swung around, opening the French-doored fridge, then as if a machine acting out its program code, he began unpacking a collection of articles from within; heirloom tomatoes, onions, spinach, some type of meat bound in a brown paper package with string.

“I’m sorry, what are you doing?” you questioned, helping yourself to one of the stools across from him on the island, appraising the wrapped package which had a sticker reading chicken, where it was sealed.

“Cooking,” he returned stoically, as if it was most obvious, though he appeared thoroughly uncomfortable.

“I didn’t know you...cooked,” you admitted incredulously and he smirked at the remark.

“You wouldn’t, this would be the first.”

“Would it be alright to know why you’re doing this?”

“I read it somewhere.”

“That...?” you encouraged him to go on, growing tired of his unfinished, vague responses which did nothing to quench your curiosity.

“That women were impressed by husbands who cook,” he lied as you pressed for elaboration.

“You...read that somewhere,” you repeated in question, failing to contain your tone of ridicule, though it was more at the concept of him having to read it to be made aware of its appeal.

“Yes.”

“Mr. Kaiba, would you like me to do it, I’m not sure you’re aware but I’m quite the competent cook.”

“Seto,” he sighed in reminder, “and yes I’m quite aware, though I’m not here to perpetuate gender roles so just watch. If you want something to do, keep my phone from locking and read me the recipe.”

Spinning sharply on his heel, he reached for the overhead pantry.

“Chicken and Bacon Pasta with Spinach and Tomatoes in Garlic Cream Sauce,” you read out loud curiously, “I’m just going by the name, but I think you missed the bacon,” you advised.

“It’s not like I would forget one of the ingredients in the actual name,” he snapped, already annoyed, fishing a packet of spaghetti from the open pantry.

“That’s not pasta,” you interjected and he clicked his tongue. Laughing lightly, you couldn’t help yourself as you asked, “Are you sure you can do this?”

“I realize,” he growled, throwing the packet back into the depths of the pantry as if it was offensive, before finding the pasta. “And yes,” he bit, “there’s nothing I can’t do.”

And observing how he wielded a knife you couldn’t dispute him, either he had practiced excessively, or he had been practicing on other things. Personally, you couldn’t be sure which prospect was scarier.

 

“Reduce to a simmer and stir,” you read him the next step as requested, “while stirring - sorry - stir until cheese melts.”

You watched his narrowed gaze over the sputtering pan of bacon, tomato and spinach, as if attempting to decode some confounding bug in a program he’d written.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s burning too fast.”

“That’s because the flame is on too high,” your voice strained as you reached for the knob on the stove from where you sat, lowering the setting. “There.”

His expression fell into a deep scowl, and you almost expected to hear the words, ‘I can do just fine on my own,’ for the nineteenth time that evening, though to his credit, he _had_ faired impressively well without your intervening.

Setting a plate of the dish in front of you on the island counter, he joined you with a plate of his own, before grating a block of Parmesan cheese over yours. A small smile played on your lips, and you couldn’t be sure if it was pride or disbelief, as you studied the impeccable presentation, thinking, of course, as expected of Seto Kaiba. There were a few burnt noodles in the mix; nothing that couldn’t be overlooked for his efforts.

Quickly fishing your phone from the pocket of your cardigan, you wrapped your fingers around his sleeve, “How do I take a photo with this?”

“And these are the words of a tech company CEO,” he mocked, demonstrating.

Having snapped the ideal picture of the two plates, you fumbled with the available apps, attempting to find a particular one.

“Please tell me you can hack into my account,” you handed him back the phone opened to the Instagram app; “I have no idea what password I used.”

“Why do you need this right now?”

“I want to share this with my fans. I read somewhere that our relationship wasn’t always well received by the media and public, and I thought something like this would help. Plus, who doesn’t want to brag about a husband like this,” you explained with a genuine smile.

Concern flashed fleetingly across his features, “I appreciate the sentiment, but this won’t do my image any favours, besides, no one would believe you.”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s my sentiment that’s important,” you argued, “please?”

“Keep it for your private collection,” he insisted, asking that you taste the dish.

“Is that your final answer?” you inquired dejected.

“It is,” he nodded. “It wouldn’t do you any good to talk about me after weeks of not interacting with your fans. It’ll do you more harm than good.”

 

 

“No one has ever cooked for me before,” you smiled down at your plate, stabbing at the last few pasta noodles, “besides hired help of course.”

He was too proud still to tell you that when you had cooked for him many months ago, it had been the first home cooked meal he had been offered since his parents had passed.

The taste had surpassed what you had expected from him, though it had required a great deal more salt, and he had made a remark early on about how he felt it didn’t compare in the slightest with what you had supposedly made him. It was the thought that counted, you had reminded him.

You pulled on his sleeve as he motioned to stand, having collected both your empty plates. “Can I…” you faltered, biting your lips, “can I kiss you?”

He released this deep and throaty laugh, prickling your skin with goosebumps as a shiver swept under your skin.

“I don’t see why my wife needs my permission,” he taunted, setting the plates back against the counter, walking around his barstool to stand over you. You turned to face him. His lips twisted in a devilish smirk, “Is that all you want to do to me?”

You would swear, you had asked with innocent intentions, though at his remark, your mind craving more began to wander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No seriously, opinions are welcome XD


	31. Husbands & Felines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the plot thickens...

“I don’t know what you mean,” you sputtered, flustered.

“I’ve taught you before and I can teach you again,” he spoke in a husk leaning in; your eyes inadvertently catapulting up to meet his, a mysterious glint obscuring his dark humour from serious intentions. You cleared your throat, uncomfortable with where the exchange was progressing. “You’re so innocent,” he began to say, sorting stray strands of hair when the ringing of his phone drew his attention. Excusing himself, he parted from you, answering with a tone which clearly indicated his displeasure.

...

Bidding the maid a pleasant evening, you closed the bedroom door behind you. As the lock snapped close with a discernible click, the bundle of fur in your hands escaped on to the floor, before bounding off towards the bed, currently occupied by a particularly tetchy Kaiba, following his phone call.

Hunched over on one crutch cradled under your arm, you followed after it with a limp, calling it back frantically, “Suki, Suki no,” you pleaded in a husked whisper, watching the flash of white ascend on to the plush comforter.

You visibly flinched as it moved with the speed of a fleeing cricket, pouncing on the unsuspecting chairman, claws unsheathed.

He released a sharp cry of pain, hissing lowly, as he rose to sit from where he was rested against the headboard, before peeling the creature away by the scruff of her neck.

“What the hell is this?” he roared, eyes like sharpened diamonds turning to you for an explanation, the cat hanging as if she was a bag of garbage from the tips of his fingers. “And more importantly, what the hell is this mangy thing doing on our bed?”

You paused for a moment mid-step, swallowing thickly, pressing your lips inwards, wincing at his tone before you continued towards the bed.

“I found her while I was gardening, turns out it was her crying outside the balcony last night, not a baby like I thought.”

“Of course there was no baby, but that doesn’t answer my question,” he groused.

“Her name is Suki - “ you defended, relieving him of the growling white tabby with blue eyes as clear as a lake in mid-summer and light grey markings over its face and loosely over its paws. You cradled her in your arms.

“You named it?”

“I did”

“Why?” he demanded.

“Well because I’m keeping it.”

“Like hell you are,” he disagreed, turning up his lip, “It’s filthy and it probably belongs to someone if it’s in this neighbourhood.”

“She was starved when I found her,” you contested, “and she’s not filthy, I had the maids wash her. I’m getting her a collar first thing tomorrow.”

“We’re not keeping that thing,” he asserted, “absolutely out of the question.”

“So it’s the cat or you?”

“It is.”

“Well I choose the cat.”

He grew livid, an animalistic sound ripped from his throat as he challenged your decision, “What?”

“I want the cat, I’m not too sure where I am still on the husband. You will never like this cat, but I can find a husband who will.”

“What are you, five?” he snarled. “There’s no way.”

“I’m assuming I lived somewhere before I married you, and I also assume I’m wealthy enough to afford basic living expenses. What’s it going to be?”

“Are you threatening me over a bag of fleas?”

“Her name is Suki,” you grit your teeth, stressing every consonant, holding the kitty closer.

“ _Suki_ ,” the word rolled off his tongue with unapologetic ridicule, “sunk its claws into me.” He pulled off his grey sweater over his head, baring his chest.

Your breath knotted unforgivingly in your throat, your eyes rounding discernibly as you realized this was the first time - at least in your memory - that you had seen him exposed.

Your eyes darted like flicked marbles towards the bathroom to your far right, sightlessly staring off into the distant spot you had chosen on the closed door,

“I’m bleeding,” he hissed, “that glorified weasel in your arms made me bleed, and it’s worse than what you usually do.”

“Suki,” you reminded sharply.

“I haven’t decided if you’re keeping it.”

“Wait,” you suddenly remembered, “I scratch you? Usually?”

“You have your own set of vicious claws.”

“Why on earth would I - and on a regular basis?” your eyebrow arched up, momentarily distracted enough to overlook his bare form before you.

He cleared his throat, directing his eyes elsewhere for a brief moment, “When we sleep together.”

“Do I get night terrors or something?”

“When we have sex, you have a habit of clawing me” he clarified bluntly, his tone falling rough. You sucked in sharply through your teeth, the audible intake of breath dissipating like an embarrassed shiver across the quiet room. “As I was saying,” he pressed harshly, “the cat needs to go, and you’re not going with it. It could have rabies for all we know.”

You grudgingly turned your head to appraise his wounds, though you couldn’t hide your admiration for his sculpted form which wouldn’t pale in the presence of a Greek God. You supposed that awe was plain on your face. It was difficult to funnel your sight on the thin hairlines of red from which droplets of scarlet seeped out when the canvas on which it was painted was so overwhelming to the senses.

“You’re overreacting, it’s just a scratch,” you muttered, looking away once again, tearing your eyes away from him with difficulty.

“Your husband is bleeding and this is what you have to say?”

“Would you like me to clean it?” you offered in a muffled mumble.

“Wouldn’t you like that?” he taunted, leaving the bed and disappearing into the bathroom. You watched the golden glow of the bathroom seeping into the dimly lit bedroom. He emerged a few moments later, and you immediately averted your gaze.

“It has blue eyes, so she reminded me of you,” you uttered in a whisper under your breath.

Climbing back on to the bed, he studied the purring feline’s eyes for a moment, “I remind you of a cat?” You couldn’t be sure if his tone read endearment or a strange sense of disappointment at being reduced to such a comparison. You wouldn’t answer. “It does have blue eyes,” he observed, “but a good majority of cats with blue eyes also have impaired hearing. I’ll have a vet check it over first.”

“You mean you’ll let me keep it?” you squealed in a piping pitch, mirth bubbling over from your eyes.

He sighed, picking up his phone from the bedside, “I didn’t say that, though what other choice do I have, you’re threatening me with the alternative of divorce.”

After a short yet detailed exchange on the phone, he explained the household Butler would be present at the door shortly, and that the cat would be taken to the vet tonight, and if no problems arise, be returned to the mansion by tomorrow morning.

“How can I trust you?” you challenged, elaborating at his confused gaze. “How do I know you want just make her disappear?”

“You can tear my Blue Eyes card if the hairball goes missing,” he confidently declared.

“That’s quite a heavy wager.”

“It is.”

  
Having handed the cat to the head butler, though with immense reluctance you would admit, you sauntered with a limp back to the bed, where your husband was still sitting exposed against the headboard; the sheets fallen away to his waist only revealing the waistband of his slacks.

“Could you please put some clothes on?” you mumbled, slipping in beside him.

“It’s summer, I’m in my bedroom with my wife, I see no reason why,” his tone was testier than you were familiar with.

“Sorry,” you quickly muttered in apology.

“It’s fine, come here.”

“Come where?”

“To me,” he gruffly ordered.

“I’m perfectly comfortable where I am,” you politely declined. Your refusal was met with a cross growl of your name.

“I can also come to you.”

You shuddered at the guttural register, shuffling under the sheets to him. Truthfully, you weren’t repulsed to the idea, nor averse to it in the least bit, except your self-imposed modesty which you practiced religiously was discouraging you under the fear that you might be judged for being without principle.

The tips of your fingers grazed his sculpted abs as you wrapped your arm around his form, a perceptible shudder once again breaking through your whole body, and his chest rumbled with a throaty laugh, “That’s my girl.”

He wrapped an arm around you, the other lifting your chin with his forefinger, his lips swiftly meeting yours without warning.

Your words demanding what he was doing smothered against his lips, his tongue massaging yours. It was wet, and sloppy and his fingers over you back tangled in your hair and it communicated more needs than you were prepared to cater to.

“You owed me a kiss, from earlier,” he panted, crystal eyes piercing yours.

“Are you - are you alright?” you dared to probe. “You seem quite upset since earlier.”

“No,” was his clipped response, and you searched frantically for a response. What had you been hoping for asking the question; a confirmation that he was fine? What had been your alternative? Had you had such a thing as a back up plan? Your mind went racing as he spoke again, “There’s actual a director’s luncheon tomorrow, and all the directors along with their families will be there. Them being aware of your condition - physically, it would raise suspicion if you don’t go, and if you do...”

“It’ll be difficult for me to present myself on crutches,” you admitted grimly, “though I don’t know how long it will be until I can walk properly again, and it will only complicate things the longer I’m away. My memory also remains an issue indefinitely.”

“We’ll only be making a short appearance, I hate these things to begin with. If you’re okay with it, I’ll cover conversation for you. As for walking, I’ll walk with you all the time.”

You nodded pensively, “Yeah, if that’s the case, I think I’ll be fine,” adding wryly, “This is how people like us live after all.”

“Will you be alright?” he inquired, concern etched on his face. “You don’t need to force yourself.”

“I won’t lie to you, but I will say I want to be there. There’s no faster way to learn something than on a crash course on the field.”

“That’s the woman I married,” he pressed his lips against your temple, a storm brewing in those ocean blue eyes as he reminded himself in silence that you wouldn’t know the true root of his concern.

...

You slipped away from him after you were convinced he had fallen asleep in the middle of the night, obsessively pouring over as much information as you could get the futuristic flash drive he had given to reveal to you on his board; teal hued neon screens spinning about you in a blur on the bedroom floor, as if a whirlwind consuming your attention.

You had no concept for how much time had passed when bare feet against the marble accompanied a disconnected voice calling gruffly for your attention.

You responded with an agitated whimper, “Huh?” not bothering to divert your attention towards the source of the voice.

You had realized by now that amongst Kaiba Corp’s history of mergers, partnerships, and ventures, along with profiles of the board directors, their psychoanalysis data among other data your former self had come to know over the years; information he once again expected you to memorize, you didn’t have the time to sufficiently invest in each topic, at least not with any depth, and with each hour which had dwindled to daybreak, you fallen into a deeper state of distress.

“It’s five in the morning,” the voice repeated, “Have you been like this the whole time?”

You released some noise conveying your agreement.

He called your name once again, “You need to get some sleep, you can’t attend the lunch looking like that.”

“No!” you protested, your tone crying bloody murder in spite of your current state of bleariness. “No, I still have so much to memorize.”

“Relax,” he urged, “I’ll be right beside you.” His eyes narrowed unbeknownst to you as he stood behind you, “Just how much did you - ”

“All the screens on this side,” you informed, waving your right hand dismissively.

His eyes grew wide with consternation, and though again you could not see, his tone carried his distress, “If you studied this much, that’s beyond sufficient.”

And though you would not believe him, Seto Kaiba was never one to give empty compliments, even in a situation such as this, even as a placebo.

You paid him no mind, madly devoting what was left of your concentration to absorb as much as you could of the information flashing on the screen suspended before you.

Left with no alternative, he bent forward, lifting you by the crooks of your arms, up and away from the screen. Stubbornly, a fingertip carried the screen up with you, and Kaiba was forced to shut down the program at its core. Speaking some monotonous command, all the glowing screens disappeared, and the room was bathed again only in soft lamplight.

Lifting your thrashing form into his arms, he paid your petulance no mind as he carried you to bed. Climbing into the sheets with you tightly secured in his arms, he drew the comforter over the both of you, while his grip continued to be unrelenting.

“Let me go,” you grumbled, “I need to finish what I started.”

His embrace tightened, “Get some sleep, that’s an order.”

“And who said you could touch me?” you challenged defiantly.

“I’m sorry if I’m violating your personal space,” he husked in your ear, “but I’ve been married to you long enough to know that the moment I release you, you’re going right back to what you were doing before.”

Your fingers curled with childlike irritation against his bare chest. He hissed; likely at your fingers having grazed the scratch your kitty had left as a gift from last night.

“Sorry,” you squeaked, eyes timidly peering up at him through heavy lids.

“Don’t be, I have plenty of resistance thanks to you,” he teased, dying your cheeks an unforgiving shade of cherry red.

The weariness must have overtaken the embarrassment, along with the heat flooding your body at being in such a tight embrace, because you woke up hours later to an empty bed, the curtains drawn open, and morning sunlight pouring in to reflect against the white walls.

The door opened as if on cue, revealing your husband. He walked to your bedside, his expression severe, contrasting severely what he held on his arms.

“Kitty!” you squealed with childlike delight, arms outstretched for the purring feline. You noticed something was tied around her neck.

“I thought it was called Suki,” Kaiba inquired with a smirk. “I even got the mangy thing a tag.”

You lowered your gaze to study the blue crystal encrusted collar, from which a gold coin and a bell hung, her name engraved on the coin, the address to the Kaiba residence etched on the back.

“That’s so adorable,” you gushed, on the verge of tears, “and it’s mine?”

A smirk still curling up his lip, he nodded, “The bell so I can hear it coming next time.”

“Did my mean husband put a bell around your neck Suki?” you cooed in a baby’s voice, poking your finger through the jewelled collar to check its tightness. “Does it hurt?”

“Your...husband?” he inquired, a tinge of pride to his tone.

“Sorry, do you not like that?”

“I like it just fine,” he affirmed. “It seems well behaved enough for a stray. It was a stray. The vet said it wasn’t in good enough health to be a house cat. He suspects it to be about a year old, perhaps a few months. So on that note,” his tone grew sonorous, “I expect it to not break anything. I didn’t give it a blue diamond collar for nothing.”

“Diamonds? These are diamonds?” you asked flabbergasted, tapping your nails against the stone. “Just how much money do you have?”

“Loads. More than enough to make you happy.”

“Don’t patronize me,” you scoffed, stroking the cat curled on your lap. “As rich as I am, I would never spend it on a diamond cat collar. I can never let her go outside with this thing now. You would be so wasteful as a father.”

It was a passing comment, though his eyes grew ominous.

“A father?”

“I imagine we would be expected to have children. Though not anytime soon, good god, not within this decade.”

An eyebrow hitched, concern and perturbation clouding his face, though words would not produce themselves addressing it. He simply advised that it was past ten and that you get dressed.

...

You wore a powder blue, tailored suit ensemble he had prepared, which was at once feminine while carrying a titillating edge; the plunging neckline of the suit jacket encrusted with large, sharp shards of clear crystal, a hint of darkness to their composition, surrounded by smaller fragments. The crystal embellishment defined the shoulders and decorated the cuffs. The flared, airy, lightly sheer trousers which matched, had a sash of fabric, attached asymmetrical across the pant leg. It was at once alluring and subtle, and carried an unmistakable resemblance to a certain playing card your husband was particularly fond of. He offered you a pair of large, crystal earrings which appeared to have been picked straight out of the bold embroidery. Your hair was swept over your face into a sleek pony. Your heels you insisted on keeping low, settling for a pair of kitten heeled, almond toed, sling backs, which while did not impress your husband, prevented you from reminding those who watched you of intoxicated flamingos.

He had opted for a black, three piece suit.

You parted with your kitten quite grudgingly once again at the front door, her distraught mewling as you left breaking your heart.

“I could have bought you a cat with a much better pedigree,” Kaiba groused as he stepped in to the car beside you.

You were charmed by the fact that he had volunteered to drive to the event instead of riding the limousine, given your dislike for them.

“I rather not perpetuate breeding programs. There are so many animals in shelters and on the streets. That’s where people should start focusing their charity.”

He wouldn’t admit it, though Kaiba was rather impressed by your reasoning, the awareness that you championed the cause so strongly also striking a chord, his mind vaguely drifting to his childhood and years as an orphan, especially considering the theme of the luncheon.

“I’m surprised you hadn’t adopted a pet earlier.”

“I never had the time I guess. Between school, acting and my company, and I suppose growing up, things only got busier, though I can’t really speak exactly on what I was thinking.”

He merely grunted in acknowledgment, lightly nodding his head. “This luncheon as I briefly mentioned is in honour of all the charitable, non-profit organizations Kaiba Corp. supports. It’s run by a foundation we’ve set up, though besides the directors, since you’ve probably had no occasion to meet any of the directors of these organizations, you will be fine. As far as I’m concerned, none of the charities you’re known to support coincide with mine.”

“I see.”

“Don’t eat anything they give you while I’m not paying attention, though I will try to minimize those gaps, and whatever you do,” his voice grew frighteningly strict here, “do not drink alcohol.”

“Why not?”

“Reflux. I rather not deal with an ulcer on top of amnesia.”

You winced at his scathing delivery, “I understand.”

...

Entering the opulently decorated hall of clear crystal and hues of blue, the shine of the brilliant chandeliers gleamed against the necklaces of diamonds adorning every lady in the room, their cocktail length taffeta dresses and tweed skirt ensembles rustling as they bustled around the white cloth draped tables and blue bow tied, clear glass chairs.

A slender woman dressed in powder blue cocktail gown was the first to greet you at the door, immediately sparking your ire at the shade. You wouldn’t know that your ensemble she found rather intimidating, finding it a rather imposing choice for your first public appearance in weeks. That had been your husband’s intention, in presenting you with an intimidating image, considering the events under which you had been forced to retire temporarily from society.

Yukari. Yukari Komei, your husband’s executive assistant you recognized from the files. From what brief summary you had read of her, you were aware that the two of you had never been on friendly terms, something your instinctive distaste which sprung from how she twisted like a willow in the wind before your husband was substantiating, and dare you say justifying.

Your eyes surreptitiously studied her cap sleeved dress, carefully embellished with fresh blooms in the same colour, and falling in a flare around her knees. Her slender hands concealed under short silk gloves of blue satin, you internally snickered, careful not to get our hands dirty from whatever deeds you do with those hands, are we?

Your husband led you by the arm into the hall, followed by his assistant like his damn tail, and immediately the space fell into a silent, vaguely punctuated by disjointed whispers. There were some questionable glares thrown, undoubtedly carrying discontent, though almost all of them were under poor attempts of concealing them. Most however, was surprise or marginal contentment. A wave of applause swept through the hall, initiated in the corner by some unknown gent in a white suit.

Your husband held up a hand, vaguely gesturing for everyone to return at they were.

Momentarily following, Isono, or a man who very closely resembled him from your articles, took to the stage, demanding everyone’s attention. He very animatedly announced your husband’s arrival, as well as yours, his speech thickly sprinkled with heavy praise, words dubbing him charitable and philanthropic - much to the displeasure of the person in question - only made more bizarre by his eccentric mannerisms.

Parting through the crowd, and with no prior warning, your husband ascended the stage, supporting you as if you weighed nothing at all.

“Welcome Kaiba Corp. directors and foundation directors from across the continent,” Kaiba’s voice thundered through the space, “to the annual Kaiba Corp. charity luncheon. Now since I dislike unnecessarily long introductions, consider this a token of our gratitude for the all the charitable services the sponsoring of my organization allows yours to do.” You had to admit, the bold, and in many ways hilarious declaration forced you to do a double-take, though looking over the sea of executives, it seemingly had not fazed them.

His younger brother took to the stage following, while the two of you stepped aside. Mokuba quickly repeated the same spiel in a way which communicated the corporation’s intentions in a less conceited manner, while also taking the time to welcome you back, mentioning how excited and relieved he was to see you back in good health.

There was something however, recalling his mirthful and slightly untamed disposition from when you had met him at the hospital, that felt amiss in how he carried himself today. His words were heavy, his motions lined with tension somehow, and you wondered if his brother had noticed.

As the lunch progressed, you remained on eggshells, though for your own reasons. Seated at a centre table, with your husband to your right, and his brother tactically to your left, you recognized the brunette woman accompanying him to be the daughter of the director seated to her left, Director Ashikaga. There were a few other directors seated around the table, some from your husband’s board, some representing the foundations which they led.

Leaning in to you, Mokuba spoke to your husband in a hushed tone, “Hey, do you think I could come over for dinner tonight?”

“You’ve never asked before,” Kaiba blandly remarked and Mokuba seemed to wince. You thought the reaction was strange since your husband hadn’t been particularly scathing, and even if he had been, you assumed his brother would be more than accustomed to it.

“Yeah...right,” he stumbled over his pronunciation, “I was just asking in case the two of you went somewhere or had something...planned.”

“We are always home Mokuba,” Kaiba returned dryly. “Where would we go with her like this?”

“Well I guess I’ll see you at around eight?”

“Whenever.”

You wouldn’t realize that your husband was especially piqued by the company the aggravating seating plan was presently forcing him to endure; this feeling of resentment only furthered by the fact that his little brother had insisted on escorting the very woman that he had specifically advised against.

With that the brother’s conversation came to a close, and the woman beside Mokuba spoke, addressing you, much to your surprise.

She called you by name, deepening your surprise, “I’m very sorry for your loss.”

You heard Mokuba hiss her name under his breath in return, though she seemed to go on, not at all discouraged.

“I beg your pardon?” you hitched an eyebrow, possessing no idea what she was referring to, though a distant fear ignited in you, wondering if you had exposed yourself somehow, even while reserving yourself to absolute silence.

“Accidents are tough,” she extended sympathetically, “but at least you’re still smiling in spite of it all, that’s what really matters right?” Your eyes narrowed, briefly glancing over to your husband for insight, his expression seemed to only carry a flicker of some unreadable emotion cloaked by indifference. “Oh I’ve been meaning to ask,” she continued nonchalantly, “Was your dress from Dior, the one you wore to the last gala?”

It was then that you realized you had been holding your breath, exhaling with a sigh as you surmised that unless she was groundlessly testing you, she was genuinely unaware of your lost memory.

“It was,” Kaiba interjected, and his response raised eyebrows in the company.

“I didn’t realize you were so informed in women’s fashion,” a director who’s name presently eluded you spoke with humour.

“I know because I took it off that night,” your husband retorted gruffly, raising a round of laughter from the men of the table, the undercurrent causing your skin to crawl.  
It was personally a degree too raunchy for Kaiba’s taste also, though he had been forced to improvise in that moment for your sake.

Fortunately, the remark had distracted the table from the previous topic where you had veered dangerously close to edge of exposing yourself, and immediately at the conclusion of the affair, following a few more close saves on your husband’s part, he excused the both of you away.

“You did good,” Kaiba commended as you both found yourselves safely in the confines of his car. He reached across the driver’s seat, planting a kiss on your right cheek. It was brief as he had been unexpected, as was his next gesture. Starting up the car, he laced his fingers through yours, bringing both your hands to rest over his thigh.

...

Late that evening you sauntered in to the grand dining hall; admittedly more out of boredom from your husband’s neglect as he worked intently on something you didn’t have the patience for than curiosity or devotion to your position as lady of the household. Supporting yourself on one crutch, your cat cradled against your other arm, you entered the hall aglow, an organized stream of maids, servers and kitchen staff flowing in from the kitchen and out through to the hallway as they prepared as if for some lavish dinner service.

Edging closer to the table, you noticed five plate settings. Extending the arm securing the crutch, you latched your fingers onto a nearby maid, demanding an explanation.  
She seemed mildly terrified, though that had not been your intention, as she explained that the young master Kaiba had notified the kitchen staff to prepare for five guests, yourselves included.

Your head immediately fell to assess the plain, striped linen dress with draped sleeves and house slippers that consisted your current attire. Puzzled, though also thrown into a frazzled frenzy, you hopped as quickly, and as coordinately as your current condition allowed back towards the entrance, the throng of servants parting to make way as their lady walked in their midst.

You couldn’t be certain if it was coincidence or pure luck meeting your husband at the doorway.

“We’re having people over for dinner - I thought it was just your brother,” you began to convey what you had just discovered as if mad, right as he scooped you off the ground, and into his arms, your cat disagreeing with the abrupt movement and slipping from your grasp. Your crutch met the ground with a clank.

“Someone find that stupid cat,” Kaiba roared as the tabby tore through the corridor, agitated.

“You’re not listening,” you urged him as he ascended the stairs.

“I’m aware, they’re already here. We need to make you look presentable.”

“Who’s here?” you queried, and suddenly finding yourself offended by him stating why you had already concluded yourself, you begged the question, “what the hell is wrong with my appearance?”

You were counting your blessings that you still had your hair and make up from earlier.

“Well for one you still have cat hair stuck to your skirt, and for another, this dress is a little too rustic for what this is turning into.”

“It’s from Free People,” you argued.

“Whatever that means.”

“And what exactly is this turning into?” You hoped to be enlightened.

“A freaking side show circus.”

  
You found out shortly following that director Ashikaga and his daughter, Atsuna, had arrived unannounced with Mokuba for dinner. The reasons eluded even your husband, who was presently on the cusp of losing his mind in your bedroom, barking about how his brother was desperately in need of a piece of his mind.

“You’re going to give yourself a stroke,” you softly pleaded for him to calm down as you stood before him with the undone zipper of your navy, velvet dress facing him, your bare back exposed to him as you held the dress in place with your palm pressed against the plunging neckline draped over your chest.

He ran the zip up the fine teeth of the mechanism with practiced expertise, his irate commentary unrelenting.

...

Entering the dining hall a second time, a strand of pearls doubled around your neck - your husband felt it befit the eldest daughter of the Kaiba family - you found the guests already seated, though they all rose as your presence was announced by the butler standing by the door. The head of the table, along with the chair immediately to its right was left vacant; your husband and you and took those seats respectively.

The director was sitting to your husband’s left, Mokuba to his left, a somber countenance to him. The daughter of the director was bizarrely seated to your right. She remained standing as your husband led you to your seat, before continuing on to assume his own, having pushed in your chair.

Continuing to be confused, you invited her to sit, and she did so clinging on to your arm.

“Thank you, sister-in-law,” she blushed as she whispered. The young woman never possessed a sober disposition to her, always tittering as if she were a slightly intoxicated bunting.

Your eyes narrowed before they widened, your gaze darting to find the younger Kaiba at the declaration, though your husband’s wildly displeased, sonorous voice echoed against the wall, demanding the attention of everyone within the walls of the hall.

“To what do I owe this displeasure? I’m not one for pleasantries so I’ll get right to it,” he snarled, “Why the hell are you in my house? It would be annoying as it is with an invitation, showing up unannounced is plain rude. So I ask, what do you want with me and my family?”

“Seto,” Mokuba attempted to appease quietly. There was no avail.

“I make it a personal rule to not dine with people that give me indigestion, and we both know director that I rather not see any of you outside of work obligations.”

“Seto,” you were forced to intervene, tightly squeezing his hand across the table.

“Explain yourself Mokuba,” he demanded, having reduced the intensity of his tone a discernible notch.

The director spoke instead, “We’re here Mr. Kaiba, intruding upon your home, and your family,” he spared a curt nod in your direction, “with a proposal for marriage.”

“Marriage?” Kaiba barked, nonplussed.

Ashikaga continued in the absence of any form of resistance from either of you.

“Yes well you see - ”

It was then that your husband seemed to have found his voice again, breaking into a thunderous laugh which bordered, no crossed the threshold of being manic. “Is this some sick joke?” he rumbled, having found a sliver of composure.

“Seto stop it, we’re expecting!” Mokuba finally interjected, seemingly on the verge of mental collapse, “Atsuna is pregnant.”

“And it’s yours?” the elder Kaiba appeared scandalized, outraged; livid. The younger nodded in dejection.

You felt fingers closing around your right arm again, the young, apparently pregnant woman beside you calling for your attention once more, her earlier words suddenly making sense. Her strange expression which appeared to you as if she was fighting a smile, with absolutely no regard for the present ambience of the dining table, she began to speak, “We realize it’s a little ill-timed and possibly even distasteful with what you’ve just been through, but - ”

“We figured Mr. Kaiba, that you wouldn’t want it to be known that the family’s firstborn was conceived out of wedlock. Of course, it is something deeply shameful for our family also.”

“How far along is your daughter?” your husband queried coldly overlooking the plainly veiled threat, having perfectly gathered his composure.

“Two weeks, Mr. Kaiba.”

“Then I don’t see how your family will give mine our firstborn,” he disputed chillingly.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a link of what she wore to the luncheon: http://hautekills.tumblr.com/post/24637510554/donna-karan-resort-2013/amp
> 
> Let me know what you think :)


	32. Go To You Like The First Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...alot of mixed opinions on the direction of this story. I didn't expect pitchforks for the twist the last chapter gave but well, they were there. Do tell me what the rest of you think also, it would be nice to hear what side holds the majority. In the meanwhile, he is something to hold you together in the meanwhile. PandaMuse I'm looking at you. 
> 
> Fair warning: this one goes in pretty heavy handedly with the emotions so...
> 
> Enjoy :)

 

“Why is that Mr. Kaiba?” the director challenged, his gaze narrowing, disbelief transforming openly to indignation on his rotund features. “I assumed when you ordered for the topic to never be discussed, that it was because Mrs. Kaiba – ”

“You know damn well what it means Ashikaga; it means it will take a lot more than that to weasel your way into this family. My brother may have fallen for your cheap tricks, but I won’t stand for it. I want a paternity test done immediately.”

You raced to make an ounce of sense of the crossfire of words being exchanged, the cogs of your mind turning slowly, as if they had rusted, or had been forced to turn against another mismatched collection of wheels. What significance had your name held in that sentence; because Mrs. Kaiba…what?

As the conversation continued to progress, always turning in directions incomprehensible to you each time you had come to grasp a fraction of what was said, you did manage to recognize that the old man across from you was the same plump swine that had led the ambush into your hospital room, his necktie still strangling him; though admittedly, not as much as you would have liked it to.

“Ah yes,” he concurred, smiling disingenuously, “we thought you might ask for that, so we came prepared.”

“I’m sure you had one _prepared,”_ your husband snarled, “I want a few done, under practices of my recommendation.”

From the director’s throat rolled a disgruntled noise; a grunt conveying his indignation, “Are you suggesting my daughter announces her pregnancy to every practitioner in Domino?”

The tension was tangible all around you.

“Doctor- patient confidentiality is a wonderful thing,” you chimed in softly.

“I think we are done here,” Kaiba snarled, his chair scraping against the marble tile in an intentionally drawn out motion as he rose, the reverberations from which were scathing to your ears. “Feel free to enjoy dinner before you see yourselves out.”

He snatched you from your chair, arm clamping around you with a grip like a vice as he whisked you from the room.

…

Suki was curled up on your husband’s pillow.

You sat on the edge of your bed, your whole form transfixed. You knew, and yet all at once, you didn’t; it was the feeling of staring off into a frozen lake, and knowing what lay beneath the surface, and still, the obscuring sheet of ice, not having physically witnessed the darkness of the cold, murky water, refusing to admit it to yourself, because the frozen lake in the winter had been so beautiful, so perfect, so serene.

He sat beside you. He had opened his mouth to speak many a times, though the words died on his mouth each time he did.

“What did he mean by that?” You plunged an icepick into the surface, just because there was ice below your feet did not mean you would not drown; it was thin ice, and whether you admitted there was freezing water below your feet or not, it would come to consume you.

“This is not how I wanted you to find out.”

“Stop being cryptic.”

“Before the accident, you fell pregnant, and miraculously, you held on to it.”

“If it was before the accident,” you calculated in a hair-raising whisper, “how far along am I?”

“Almost two months.”

“I see. Were your directors pressuring you, were mine? Was that why we married in such a hurry?” you begged for him to tell you, your voice cold and flinty. Your vision had blurred against some obscure part of the nightstand.

“Partially, though you said you wanted this. You stopped your birth control without discussing with me. We slept together a few times during that time. You said you couldn’t bear losing it a second time.”

“You mean I’ve miscarried before?” His silence answered plenty where his words didn’t. “Did you not want this?”

“I had told you I wanted children, but when we conceived, your body wasn’t ready. You’re anemic, your blood reports were a mess, and they still are to some extent. The possibility exists that you won’t survive this, so I want you to think about this again. They told me the strain the pregnancy was placing on your body was possibly one of the reasons keeping you unconscious, but I couldn’t make that decision for you. I didn’t feel I had the right. So I’m asking now, before you endanger your own life carrying it to term, we can still have children when you’re older, I can’t bear the thought of losing you again.”

It was impossible – almost impossible – at least to your hopelessly straggling mind, the speed with which you swung around, straddling him. Your nimble fingers made quick work of his buttons, before your impatience persuaded you to grip his shirt halfway, tearing it open the rest of the way down. He caught your trembling wrists as your fingers crept past his pecs, splaying over his back; his navy shirt on the edge of slipping past his shoulders.

“You’re not thinking straight,” he scolded, forcing you to meet his steel gaze, “what are you doing?”

“It’s so unfair,” you whimpered, “I’ve barely kissed you, never had the chance to touch you, to be with you. I don’t know what it means to feel good like that, what it means to have good sex –”

“What are you –”

“I mean, it must have been good if we had so much of it, right? I don’t know what it means to be with a man – any man, what it means to be pleasured by a man and here I am, with this burden to shoulder,” your voice escalated from a strained whisper to meet a fever pitch, violent convulsions shaking your body, “and what’s worse, my husband doesn’t even want it.”

He remained transfixed for an instant as he bitterly observed the pain twisting on your features, his features reflecting that torture.

“I never said I didn’t want it, I gave you my opinion and said I will respect your decision,” he corrected, his tone still grounded. “Forcing yourself to sleep with me now doesn’t make up for lost time, especially when you’re doing it out of desperation for some form of justification and justice.”

“Oh my god,” you gasped, red rimmed eyes carelessly spilling tears over reddened cheeks, “it’s not just the baby that you don’t want, you don’t want me either. Am I no longer desirable to you because I’m pregnant?” Your expression against your ghostly complexion had contorted with horror and mortification. “Was I ever desirable to you?”

“Stop that,” he ordered sonorously, “I possess no hesitation in being intimate with you. You’re all I find desirable, but I desire you on an emotional level also, so I feel a deep obligation to protect you. Right now, you’re this relationship’s worst enemy, as well as your own.” His words held clarity for you in that moment you were standing in the eye of the storm; his thoughts profound and honorable. You found yourself agreeing with his thoughts, and growing to respect him as a human being. You found yourself leaning forward, resting your head against his shoulder, burying your face in the bare skin of the crook his neck, as your fingers laced together behind his broad back. He faltered as he spoke his next words, “Entering this relationship, I was a terrible companion to you. I forced myself on you. I abused my power in a way that was unhealthy…trust became a constant issue for us. If this is where we are, if you never recover your memory, I don’t want us to repeat history. I want to set a better example to you who’s still young and impressionable.”

“You sound like a saint.”

“You’re the only person who had ever said that about me,” he chuckled dryly.

“You’ve been nothing but good to me.”

“I think it’s best if we discussed this tomorrow, do you want me to take you for a drive to clear your mind?”

You paused to consider his offer, but somehow couldn’t find the motivation to accept.

“I’ve never played a video game you know – at least, as far as I can remember. Would you teach me how?”

He allowed another dry laugh, “You want me to teach you how to play a video game? I didn’t think you were interested.”

“Who better to learn from than the master?”

Seto Kaiba teaching you how to play a video game you considered an honour akin to Tolstoy teaching you the art of the word – if only he would agree.

“You could stand to call me that more often,” he purred.

“Ew, is that what we had between us?”

“No, I’ll teach you if you clean yourself up and agree to eat something.”

“Is everything a transaction to you?”

He would only laugh.

…

You found yourself curled up on a leather couch which was currently consuming you, a controller with more buttons than you could care to memorize between your fingers. The crystal encrusted halo lights carved into the ceiling had been dimmed, the purple and blue glow pouring forth from the screen occupying the entirety of the distant wall, reflected against the darkened white walls.

The uncoordinated assault your fingers dealt on the controller did not seem to translate to the movements of the purple haired paladin or mage or whatever she was, currently being dominated by his dragon knight.

“You need to pick better characters,” Kaiba berated from beside you, “and pay attention to what buttons you’re pressing, you’re hardly doing anything.”

Truth be told, at this point, you were just hoping for something to happen…anything.

“You’re going easy on me,” you accused, eyes briefly drifting over to him. His fingers hardly moved against his controller, his eyes fallen over you with amusement for the greater part. “And I’m still losing.”

“It’s because you keep looking over to see what I’m doing instead of playing the game.”

“No, it’s because you designed and programmed the damn thing.”

That wasn’t it. It was so painfully obvious he was allowing you to land attack after attack on him, though he tried to be subtle, and it would have helped, had you been competent enough in initiating an assault.

“You’re lasting longer than the last three times,” he commended, leaning back in a way which was unapologetically cocky.

You had remembered what he had taught you on how to utilize your shield.

“Don’t patronize me, I just need more practice,” you defended.

“For a sharpshooter you have practically no concept of aiming,” he ridiculed in retort.

“For a husband you practically have no tact.”

“Are you accusing me of not letting you win?” he challenged and you would vehemently deny the claim. “I could stand still and you would still lose. I’d have more of a challenge competing with your cat.”

And with that he landed the finishing blow. You discarded the controller over his lap as if a petulant child, sharpening your lips into a pout.

“I’m not playing anymore.”

“I’m not surprised,” he accepted blandly, picking up the two controllers and tossing it over the coffee table. “You’re not used to losing at anything.”

“I should teach you how to play Duel Monsters,” he suggested, reaching for the pocket of his trousers.

“Oh no,” you quickly declined, “that’s like the holy grain of your existence, I think I’ll pass. I’d rather be ignorant of the game than suck at it. I don’t think I could ever redeem myself in your eyes if I wasn’t good at it.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he dismissed, placing a stack of familiar cards on the coffee table, “If that mutt could learn to play, anyone, especially you with such a high IQ can.” He retrieved your glass locket from his other pocket. “I’ll be taking this back for the moment if you don’t mind,” he spoke, removing the Blue Eyes card from the confines of the glass holder.

You could feel the burden of mastering this game already weigh heavily over you.

“If I don’t…meet your expectations,” you bit your lip, while your hand sought his inner thigh, hoping to appease him ahead of your next words, “you won’t divorce me would you?”

“You won’t disappoint me,” he confidently maintained, reaching for his deck, and sorting through his cards. He wouldn’t deny your claim, and that was immensely disconcerting. “There are forty to sixty cards to a deck,” he began, his tone immediately growing masterly and assertive. “There are three main types of cards, spell, trap and monster. There are seven possible attributes and twenty five different types of monsters...” He went onto explain how to read a card, and you closed your eyes, feeling a headache gather like storm clouds behind your eyes, while fighting to absorb each piece of information which left his lips.

“I know how to read a card,” you finally interjected, and he proceeded to explain the gameplay. In a distant corner of your mind, you wondered if he would shut up if you kissed him.

…

“I lay two cards face down and end my turn,” he declared overdramatically, and you sighed. It was obvious those were a trap and a spell card, though you couldn’t help but wonder why he had bothered, considering the duel was as good as over. You could predict – if such an obvious guess could be glorified to be dubbed a prediction – exactly how the next round, along with your two hundred remaining life points would play out; he would use his Blue Eyes to wipe through your defences, and there wasn’t a card in your hand, or your poorly thrown together deck that could save you – unless of course the Blue Eyes in _your_ deck decided to make a surprise appearance, which knowing your luck it wouldn’t.

Your glare flickered briefly over the imposing silver briefcase left open on the coffee table, now convinced that you should have allowed him to assemble your deck instead of your overinflated pride.

“This would be much more entertaining with holograms,” you pouted, stalling as you languidly sifted between your cards, a spell, another spell, a marshmallow looking thing and _oh look_ another monster card you had no idea how to use. Of course, what hope did you have against a champion on your second attempt?

“Holograms have the tendency to overwhelm players on their first attempt, and the last thing I want is for you to have a fit after all the excitement this evening.”

“Oh tinman, you do have a heart,” you remarked wryly, throwing down the low level monster in defense mode.

“What?”

“It’s a Wizard of Oz reference – oh never mind just end it,” you grumbled.

He promptly did. “You faired against me better than most people,” he offered in response to the clear dejection weighing your expression, resetting the field.

You could only scoff, “Don’t lie because I’m your wife.”

“I’m serious,” Kaiba asserted, “you destroyed one of my Blue Eyes and almost managed to control the second.”

“Please, I barely touched your life points.”

He rustled your hair endearingly, a gravelly laugh rolling in his throat, “I would be concerned after all these years if you did.”

Shuffling closer, you arched your neck, pressing your lips against the side of his cheek.

…

You woke up to hushed whispers.

“How is sister-in-law doing? Did she take it well?” you could hear Mokuba ask.

“She’s fine, she fell asleep duelling,” you heard your husband tell him. You could feel his breath break against your ear as he spoke.

“Duelling?”

“I tried teaching her Duel Monsters.”

“And?”

“She was as I expected.”

Your stomach churned, wondering what that had meant. There was a muffled hum of acknowledgement.

“Seto,” his voice sounded somber as he faltered, “I’m telling you it really wasn’t me. At first I thought it was, but there’s just no way, the timing doesn’t match up.” His voice sounded distance, as if it was reaching you through a tunnel, and it was then that you realized he wasn’t present in the room, leaving you to understand that your husband was conversing with his brother on the phone.

“You should have come to me earlier,” was the older Kaiba’s response. “I’ll take care of it. Mokuba, this is why I told you to stay away from those people.”

You stirred at this point, your neck against his outstretched arm growing numb from being rested in the same, stiff attitude for a period of time. You became aware of how you were oriented as you moved; your legs tangled with his, your face smothered against his chest. You weren’t averse to being with him this way, as if your affections for him had suddenly pendulated towards the opposite end of the spectrum. You concluded it was the dream you had seen.

“I have to go,” the older suddenly interrupted, “I’ll call you in the morning. Don’t leave your apartment.” He stressed every word, and his tone conveyed unequivocally that his order was not to be strayed from.

The conversation concluded and you opened your eyes, tilting your face to meet his eyes.

“You fell asleep during the third duel,” he explained and you hummed, though it left your lips a fatigued moan.

“Oh no, don’t spoil the ending,” you joked, nuzzling your face back against his chest into the bare skin between the undone buttons over his collar bones.

The motion was tremendously surprising to Kaiba, so much so that he tensed all around you, afraid he would crave more if he allowed himself to indulge in this transient spark of affection.

“Seto,” you peered up at him once again, his name feeling both like an airy cream and a heavy velvet as it left your tongue. A shiver assaulted the usually, chillingly composed CEO, leaving prickled skin in its wake. “I had a dream.”

“What dream?”

“There were all these bright lights, like in the pictures you showed me, and there was this old lady, telling us to come back with our children one day, because she’s always there…at that fair.”

You could feel him try to hold you a little closer, as he whispered, “that wasn’t a dream.”

“I remember feeling really happy,” you confessed, your breath feeling as if it had been stripped from your lungs, overwhelmed by happiness, while being weighed down with longing all at once.

You thought this was what people meant when they said their breath was taken away.

You felt desperation, the kind of desperation Seto had been feeling alone. You wanted to remember; it was then you understood the burden of carrying memories, once carried by two, alone. It was then that you had for the first time humanised this figure.

You wondered how lonely he must have been; because he _was_ capable of feeling emotion. All this while, you had so selfishly focused on your pain, your unhappiness, that you had never paid him any mind, doing him the injustice of condemning him to be someone who could feel nothing. What possibly stung even more however was that despite this, he had done nothing but try to cure you of your sadness, all the while, silently nurturing his wretchedness.

You could feel soft weights pressing against your thigh, moving in circles, before something settled against you over the sheets.

Tilting your face up, you kissed his lips; you stole a kiss, your lips meeting his the way a butterfly’s wing drummed against the air; briefly, fleetingly, softly yet without lacking conviction. Seconds were enough to lose your breath. He panted, as if you had stolen his, gazing down at you disbelievingly.

Your eyes invited him closer, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt as his cupid’s bow brushed your nose.

Leaning forward, his silken lips grazed yours, pulling away just as quickly, before meeting you again; it was intoxicating, this sensuous dance, it was dizzying, as you deprived each other of air, and it felt as if it was all you had ever wanted; all you had waited for in life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think! :)


	33. Contrails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got carried away writing this, it is totally not almost 3 in the morning, lol I've been writing for almost 8 hours straight. Side note: I had an interesting day to say the least, my heel caught on an escalator, lost the heel, ruined a perfectly good lace dress with gelato; inspiring this number annnnd...then came home and put everything else off to write this. Lmao I have a meeting/presentation first thing tomorrow. 
> 
> SO on that note, do tell me how you feel about the plot/ pace/ character development/ interactions because feedback (pitchfork variety included) would be appreciated, especially you silent readers :) The plot will get very heavy very fast from here so now is a good time for concerns :) 
> 
> Also...1000 comments, you guys, thank you <3
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Your fingers knotted against his shirt, and in his hair, a button came undone, baring more skin; you pressed yourself closer. What had made you trust this man, you couldn’t remember, but his protective gaze had felt sincere, looking down at you on those fairgrounds. It became your most recent memory of him, of his eyes.

Distantly, you thought of falling stars and cherry petals when you saw those eyes.

Right now they were watching you as he kissed you, his sharp jaw that much more prominent as his lips called for more fervour. He rose from beside you as if in a trance, his arm lifting the unsuspecting cat curled on your legs and displacing her somewhere else over the sheets as he clambered over you under the comforter. The indignant feline expressed her displeasure before leaping off the bed, disappearing beyond.

You found yourself smiling as you saw him come to you, blue eyes ablaze.

He paused, forehead resting on yours, kissing you only with his breath, “What is it?”

Your fingers sought his back, splaying over his sculpted muscles you could feel over his shirt.

“I just…I was thinking what an idiot I must have been…to forget all of this, all of you.”

“I’ll make you remember,” he swore, “somehow. And if not, I’ll make the rest of it worth it.”

You closed your eyes, your breathing rising and falling softly, though with an insatiable yearning as you forced your lips against his slightly parted ones with a swift tilt of your chin.

Your hands explored his back, every inch; his dove under yours, fingers tangling in your hair, the other under the small of your back, the space between you having become torture to him. 

His lips strayed, open mouth kisses raining over your cheek, over the curve of your ear, the side of your neck, the soft skin over your pulse…

“What does good sex feel like?” you found yourself asking him. You could feel him tense before he pulled away, his eyes wider than they usually were under his heavy fringe falling into them.

“What?” he practically croaked, choking on the word.

“Could you show me?” you murmured. “I mean you’ve already gotten me pregnant, it wouldn’t be something –”

“Don’t tempt me,” he groaned, planting a kiss against your cheek. “Do you know what you do to me?”

“Yes, I can feel it against my thigh.”

The uncharacteristically straight forward response ripped a throaty laugh from him, the tail of which left a trace of a smirk on his lips, “How did this girl grow up to be so demure?”

“I grew up to be? Do you not like me like this?”

“I don’t hate it,” he rasped. “In fact, I could get used to my wife asking me for good sex more often,” he chuckled again.

“You’re mocking me,” you pouted.

Suddenly his voice grew sober, weighed by some emotion, “Do you really want me to?”

“Yes,” you breathed, allowing the air to catch in your throat.

“Then that’s enough,” he declared, motioning to move away.

“What?”

“If I have my way with you right now, with all your soft tissue damage and how your legs are, I’ll probably break you.”

“Excuses,” you accused.

“Hardly,” he rejected, “why would I make up excuses to avoid sleeping with you?”

“That’s twice today.”

He closed his eyes, directing his gaze elsewhere momentarily from frustration. Without warning, his fingers tightened around your thigh like a vise, and a shrill scream tore from your throat.

“I’m hardly holding you,” he remarked, before moving his hands to grip your shins, folding your knees all the way up. You pleaded to be released, writhing in agony. “My point,” he grunted. “You think you’ll hold up against the kind of sex I have with you?”

He fell away from you to your side.

You blushed a deep crimson, turning away from him.

“I can make you feel good without being inside you,” he spoke hoarsely in your ear, hand ghosting over your stomach to find your chest. Feeling his fingertips shift the silk of your nightie over your hardening nipples, you sucked in a sharp breath. Your hand curved over his much larger hand, parting your lips to speak when his phone rang.

The warmth of his chest against your back momentarily disappeared as he reached for his phone on the opposite nightstand. He returned to hold you as he answered.

“Kaiba,” he stoically spoke. “Can this not wait until morning?”

“No,” you heard the voice on the other end apologize profusely, continuing to explain.

“I see. I’ll call you back.” Disconnecting the line, he hovered over you on his side. “I’ll have to make you feel good some other time,” he told you, kissing your temple. “Something came up with one of our servers. Get some sleep.”

“You’re leaving?” You latched on to his sleeve.

“No.”

“So you’ll be in the study if I need something?”

“I was planning to work from in here,” he advised, and you couldn’t help but beam, tackling him into a hug. He kissed the top your head before parting from you.

…

You were roused by the soft rustling of sheets, the bed dipping behind you as someone shifted closer; the continuous sound of typing and voices no longer disturbing the quiet room. There was a whistling wind beyond the windows however, stirring the wisteria blossoms and the grove of oak and maple trees. You were surrounded by a comfortable darkness, softly lifted by golden lamplight.

“Are you sleeping?” you heard him inquire. You had intended to answer, though you fell immediately silent as he spoke again, assuming you were asleep. “Thank you,” he husked, “for coming back to me.” His voice sounded broken, vulnerable, many things you never fathomed you would hear from the man. “I thought many times about ending this miserable existence, waiting for you to wake up. The only thing that kept me going, besides the hope that you may someday wake up, was that they told me you might carry the pregnancy to term despite being unconscious, because there was a heartbeat. I wanted to have something of you to hold on to. I prayed it would be a daughter. You had kept insisting it was…” His voice cracked here, and he paused for a long moment to steady his voice. You almost believed he wouldn’t speak again. “But I was a coward,” he confessed, “I was scared. Every night I had the same dream. You never came, and I was raising her alone. I would be here in this very room, lying alone on this bed. I would always be woken up to the sound of our baby crying. I would get up, go over to her, and hold her until morning, never once wondering where you were…because I knew, I knew you weren’t coming. Night after night I lived through that hell.” His voice was bitter as it fell over your ear; it was so small that you wondered if he was crying. You wanted to hold him, but you knew if he had wanted you to hear, he wouldn’t have waited until you fell asleep. He was too proud; this was still the most feared man in the country. “On the worst nights, I would watch her grow up without you. She had my blue eyes like you had wanted.” Your cheeks were wet with tears, and you fought to suppress your sobs. “Except there were nights I woke up to realize that I may never have either; you or the baby. I never want to feel that sort of desperation again. I promised myself I would do anything you asked; get on my knees if you asked, give you anything you wanted, because not knowing if I would have the chance, it was more than I could bare. Turns out there are things I can’t afford, and you’re all of them.”

These were the embers of the fire you had left him while you slept all those weeks you realized, and while you couldn’t confidently say you loved him, you hurt for him, and his words stirred in you sentiments you had not known you were nurturing for him; devotion, attachment, the deep desire to heal him.

His body was convulsing all around you, trembling, so you waited. You waited for a long while to lapse in silence. You hoped he had fallen asleep, though his breathing was much too tense and rugged.

You turned in his embrace, pretending to be asleep. From the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of his blue eyes glowing amber. Smudged trails gleamed over his porcelain complexion, like contrails on a bright sky.

You allowed the rhythmic drum of his heart lull you to sleep.

…

Seto was in his study, his executive assistant standing over him, reading him a progress report for one of the games his corporation was developing. He could hear disconnected figures and dates intended to serve as deadlines endlessly assaulting his comprehension, though nothing registered.

His mind drifted defiantly back to how your slender arms had circled his neck as you woke up this morning, asking for a kiss, then begging for more; how you had sat on the bathroom counter, watching him shave with fond eyes and a smile he never would tire of.

He couldn’t help but be curious what you were doing in that very moment. The physical therapy session was scheduled for the afternoon, so he wondered what could have possibly captured your imagination so early in the morning for you to have excused yourself from the breakfast table with such vigor. You had refused to indulge him in spite of his probing.

He was called from the distant place he had found himself in his mind, by the cool touch of a hand over his cheek.

“Mr. Kaiba,” a silvery voice spoke quizzically, “Mr. Kaiba, can you hear me?”

Her ebony curls cascading forward, her back arched, he found his assistant leaned before him, her hand rested against the side of his face, her breath falling over his upper lip; face inches from his.

Expression souring, he seized her hand with a crushing grip, intending to thrust it away when then door swung open without warning.

“Seto I found this really sunny room in the South wing and I think it’ll look really beautiful in the morning for the...nursery,” you faltered, brows drawing together painfully as you only then looked up, pausing to catch your breath at the last word, winded from the animated announcement of your discovery.

There were flashbacks to your father, you couldn’t be sure when you had started seeing it, but Yukari started looking like some long lost daughter of your step mother.

Your husband rose to his feet with haste, the beautiful young woman falling away from him with the motion.

Crumpling the blue and blush swatches of paint into your fist, you staggered back, steadying yourself on your crutch.

His lips parted, motioning to speak, but the words died on his tongue before they manifested themselves in open air. You follow this motion, like a fish out of water, before sputtering an apology.

You should have known something of this nature would exist somewhere in his life. You should have known a man of his stature wouldn’t be a saint. You of all people should have.

You shouldn’t act surprised, you reminded yourself. Your former self had likely known and you couldn’t give yourself away so plainly.

“I’m sorry - I - it looks like I’ve interrupted something, if you’d excuse me.”

You stumbled back, nearly impaling yourself on the door handle, before your fingers clumsily found the curved brass to yank it open.

You heard your name being called; his gravelly voice rich with ire as it carried down the corridoor.

He caught you before your bedroom door, your hand firmly gripping the handle as if it provided some insurance; some guarantee of entry and security, instead of being ripped away and whisked off to receive punishment. It took you a moment to remember that this wasn’t your step-mother, though still, he was apoplectic as she often was and you did not know what you had done wrong, so in ways, the situations were not much different.

He wrapped his much larger hand over yours, pressing down on the door handle. He pulled you into the room, pointedly shutting the door behind you.

“It’s not what it looked like.”

“Classic,” you ridiculed, unable to suppress the vexation which welled.

“What?”

“That’s the oldest in the book,” you elaborated with a wry turn of the lips.

“It’s a misunderstanding,” he released an indignant grunt.

“No,” you breathed, “I’m the one who asked you to - “

“You’re only hearing yourself,” he interrupted, exhaling to calm his own exasperation. “What did you have to show me?”

“I told you that before I knew I was pregnant,” you whispered. “Is it that difficult to leave behind?”

“Leave what behind?” he demanded.

“I understand men like you aren’t ever satisfied with one of anything, but – but I thought I was enough. Why am I not enough? I’m willing to give you anything.”

“Don’t belittle yourself. This is about your father,” Seto growled, and your head snapped up to him. “I’m not having an affair,” he affirmed, “never have, and for as long as I’m married to you, I never will.”

“For as long as you’re married?” you challenged. “Do you plan to _not_ be married at some point?”

“Stop picking apart my words, I’ve been nothing but faithful to you.”

“Then what did I see?”

“I’ll have a conversation with her.”

“That’s not what I’m asking you,” your voice grew to a husk.

“What she did was out of line.”

“I’m asking you to tell me what I saw!” you bellowed, startling him visibly, not having heard you raise your voice at him for many number of weeks. “I’m asking you why I saw my husband with his secretary draped all over him. What could have possibly - ”

“Do you want me to fire her? Because one word from you, and I will.”

“No,” you uttered in a whisper. No, that’s not how you took care of business. Marionettes were easier controlled with the wires still attached.

“It won’t happen again.”

“See to it that it won’t,” your voice had grown cold.

He reached for your closed fist; knuckles burning white. “What’s in your hand?”

You jerked your hand away, tightening your grip, “It’s nothing.”

“Nursery?” he pieced together your earlier words. “You found a room you like for the nursery?” Ignoring your defiance, he drew you closer, a strong arm snaking around your back. Your eyes remained stubbornly fixed on the marble tile. “Show me,” he husked in your ear.

“I don’t want to.”

He unravelled your hand, appraising the ruined colour swatches.

“We don’t know the gender yet,” he remarked, eyes narrowing over the strips of paper.

“No.”

“Do you want to go out to the garden?” he offered. “Play with dirt like you did the other day?” There was a certain sense of endearment in his tone.

“Don’t patronize me like some child. I don’t want that woman in this house,” you muttered in return, “whatever you have to do, do it in your office at work, don’t bring it home. You should start going back to work now anyway.”

“If you don’t want her here, I won’t have her come,” he responded, attempting to suppress his pitch to the calmed register possible, “but I want you to resign your comment about doing whatever I want at work.”

“Fine.”

“Sincerely.”

“I won’t say things which betray my conscience.”

He sighed your name, “What is it going to take this time?”

“I’m not a vending machine.”

Rolling his eyes, he lifted you against his waist, the skirt of your denim pinafore gathering to expose the greater part of your thigh.

“What are you doing?” you thrashed your limbs; his grip against you unrelenting.

“Taking you out,” he vaguely responded, picking up his grey duster jacket draped over a chair before gliding out the door.

You met his assistant as you reached the third floor landing. You had surrendered to his unilateral decision making which lacked explanation. Her face read a great number of things in that instant; contempt, resentment, jealousy, and a mild spark of surprise.

He advised her to complete what he had requested of her from the office, offering for one of his drivers to escort her there.

Parting from her finally at the garage, Seto stalked over to unlock a silver convertible. You couldn’t begin to guess the make of the car had your life depended on it, and would probably have assumed an Aston Martin was a person rather than a car manufacturer.

...

He parked in front of what was best dubbed an ice cream boutique. You almost hadn’t recognized it to be an ice cream place, given the store design. It was a petite establishment; thus for all intents and purposes a boutique. The glass exterior, consisting of the one wide window and entrance, was framed in black varnished wood, gold lettering curving across the front glass.

A small silver bell rang as the front door swung inwards, announcing the server dressed in a black apron behind the counter of your entrance. His lively voice wavered through his greeting as he recognized the patron, offering a bow of his head for good measure; in most instances where Seto Kaiba walked into an establishment, he possessed no other purpose besides acquiring it, especially one as contradicting to his character as an ice cream shop.

The interior reflected the shop window, dark wood making up the counter adorned with silver knobbed drawers, the showcase embellished with gold lettering, as well as the open pantry lining the wall behind, holding rows upon rows of glass chalices and goblets catching the light of the single grand chandelier bathing the whole space in a subtle gold. There was a brass gramophone mounted against the edge of the counter, burgundy lilies and some exotic lantern sharing the surface, while bowls and jars of intricate China occupied the shelves below, crammed together with dark, hardbound books.

If it hadn’t been for the colourful assortment of gelatos and ice creams, one could have easily mistaken the place for a designer jewellery boutique.

“Why have you brought me here?” you asked him, peering up. He marched up to the counter, refusing to answer your question. 

“Triple scoop,” he ordered, the sonorous tremor of his voice you thought an unnecessary touch, “pistachio, blood orange and double chocolate.”

“Is that for me, because I literally have never tasted any of those flavours except chocolate.”

“Your preferences must have changed considerably over the years,” he mused, ordering a single scoop of coffee for him. “You’ll have to hold this while I drive,” he informed, reaching for his wallet.

You accepted the two cones, one towering dangerously high from the young man with an appreciative bow.

You learned that he was a fan, and indulged him with your autograph upon his request before taking your leave.

“Where are you taking me?” you inquired, once back in the car.

“Keep that from dripping all over you,” was his only response.

“How do you expect me to do that?” you returned dimly.

“I don’t know,” he offered with thick sarcasm, “lick it maybe?”

“Yours is melting faster than mine.”

“Do you need me to explain the concept separately for each cone?”

You sighed; he definitely was not a saint.

…

He had brought you to a large lily pond, giant lily pads fanning out of the green waters like Chinese fans, heads of fuchsia water lilies peeking from in between. Tall reeds springing up like walls stood behind you, the whole pond surrounding you, stretching into the horizon to meet the powder blue sky speckled stingily with clouds. Wooden walkways stood above the pond, spreading like a game of snakes and ladders over the water.

“You should have stood your ground,” he told you, standing beside you. You were seated at the edge of a peer, your legs dangling above the murky water, “…earlier.” He sighed, seemingly exhausted. “You should have asserted yourself as my wife. I fully expected you to pin her to the wall by her throat. People will grow suspicious if you suddenly turn timid.”

“Is that how I lived?”

“You knew what you wanted, and you knew how to secure it. I admired that about you, that’s why I married you.”

“I think I sound like a piece of work.”

“Believe me you were,” he allowed a guttural chuckle. “I found it attractive.”

You smiled at the remark. “What a strange thing to be attracted to.”

“Being attracted to only the good traits in a relationship I find is a sure way to end it.”

“You sound like you’re a hundred,” you teased.

“And I’m raising a child,” he retorted with a smirk.

“Will you not sit?”

“The peer is too close to the water.”

“No one asked you to hang your legs off the edge,” you pointed, “I only asked you to sit.”

Considering your words, reluctantly he did, awkwardly folding his long legs in front of him. He looked comically stiff. You shifted back, crossing yours, taming the denim fabric with your hand so the skirt wouldn’t ride up all the way.

Reaching for his forearm, you drew the cone up to your lips, licking the scoop exactly where he had previously, eliciting a smirk from him in place of where you had expected protest.

“I don’t have my phone,” you explained, “could you take a photo with yours?”

“Why?” he dryly questioned.

“Because if I ever lose my memories again, I’d like to remember this.”

“Don’t even say something like that,” he scolded, though he complied.

“Your arm is longer,” you encouraged him to take the photo, and as he did, you grappled his forearm again, licking the coffee-flavoured ice cream. Only, you never expected he would retaliate as he pressed the button once again.

 

 

“They turned out well,” you commented, flicking between the handful of photos with your sticky fingertips, your hands now free of the messy treat. Your head was resting on his lap.

“If you’re done, let’s go,” he stoically called. “I need to get back to work.”

“Five more minutes,” you resisted, lowering his phone.

“You said that fifteen minutes ago,” he groused, peering down at you.

Staring up at the contrails creasing the otherwise perfectly azure sky you smiled, “I know.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do let me know how you feel!


	34. Methods Of Persuasion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 6500 words this one, I only ever recall writing one other chapter this slowly. Do let me know how you think the chapter pans out, it sort of goes everywhere, while the plot stands absolutely still. I felt we needed a chapter somewhere to properly explore her emotions and address them. Let me know what you think!
> 
> Enjoy :)

Contrails were beautiful, you mused, in an unremarkable, mundane sort of way. The white wisp dissolving and scattering into undisturbed blue like disappearing sea foam into crashing waves was therapeutic to see. The whisper of the wisteria twisting in the weaving wind, the rustle of the foliage the old oaks and maples had poured forth for the summer, the fragrance of the magnolia blossoms which stole into your bedroom every morning, arriving again in early evening at your window, washing up in waves with every soft exhale of the wind, when the day’s last light burnt with a marigold yellow glow, all of which the white drapes caught with open arms, dancing, these, all these ordinary, in every sense unremarkable happenings had become your favourite things about the reality you had woken up to. The reality you were expected to conform to. These unspectacular, ordinarily unremembered things had become your highlights, your silent companions.

They were bearable.

Sweeping down the hallway like a silent gust of wind, you sought refuge in the room designated to be the nursery. The door meeting the lock and frame violently, you cried. Slipping against the wall, you gave yourself permission to pour forth all that was unbearable on to your lap, knowing fully that when you ultimately left the room, you would be forced to swallow it all back. You cried, profusely. Only the last rays of sun burning auburn through the tall windows watching.

A child, you screamed silently, he had given you a child, one you weren’t certain he wanted delivered. Though where Mr. Kaiba stood on offspring wasn’t what had inspired this fit of tears, rather it was your own sentiments on the child that you couldn’t bring yourself to voice in open air. You screamed silently, pouring forward over and over, the swell of your veins with each word which you forced back into your throat threatening to burst.

Social construct, along with with moral obligation dictated certain thoughts unthinkable, even at the cost of betraying your own conscience, so you in that moment were both an outlaw, as well as a traitor; a traitor for convincing yourself to conform, and an outlaw for thinking those damnable thoughts regardless.

You wanted to run, but your broken legs wouldn’t carry you far, the guard gates at the furthest even if they managed, and beyond them, your broken mind would not know where to lead you. For all you knew, empty space existed beyond the mansion grounds, like an undrawn map with blank coordinates, except of course the route home from the hospital, which your memory had coloured in.

In short, you were afraid.

You were a stranger to the world, and it to you. You felt unending loneliness in this house, but you had a husband willing to take care of you and your unborn child, you reminded yourself, so it was practical to stay.

The walls heard muted wails and strained apologies chanted in repeated succession, words losing meaning as they melded into each other, the internal chaos escaping to the outside world.

There was a knock on the door. You clamped your hand over your mouth, though your repressed screeching could hardly penetrate a heavy oak door. It came again, the rapping of knuckles on hard wood.

“Mrs. Kaiba, are you in here?” an anxious voice called for you. “Master Kaiba is looking all over for you. Please let me in.”

“Just a moment, I’ll be right out,” you returned, vocal chords pulled taut, your voice brittle though deceivingly composed.

You wiped your sodden cheeks with the back of your hands, rising against the cold wall to your feet. You sniffled, then swallowed, steadying your voice. Clearing your throat you unlocked the door, opening it to a distraught maid, obviously victimized by your husband’s tyranny.

“Where is he?”

“He asked you be sent to the bedroom when found ma’am,” she explained.

“Are you alright?” you stopped to inquire, resting a hand on her quivering shoulder, studying her expression which eerily resembled your own.

“Yes, the manor is just in a frenzy looking for you. Master Kaiba was worried something had happened,” her voice trembled.

“Something like what?” you couldn’t suppress your derision.

“Fainted, hurt, kidnaped. He assumes the worst.”

“Kidnapped? In this impenetrable fortress?” you jeered, and the young woman winced. “You don’t look alright. When are you off?”

“I just started madam.”

“Take the night off,” you advised, sauntering past.

Grappling your arm, she pleaded for you to reconsider, “Please, I can’t afford losing...the shift.”

It took you a moment to comprehend what she was referring to. It was a harsh reminder of your privilege.

“Rest in the servant’s quarters. I’ll make sure you’re compensated,” you assured.

“The other maids wouldn’t like that,” she apprised in a small voice. She hunched under your scrutiny, small hands knitting together.

“Wouldn’t like which, their colleague recuperating her health or receiving an order from me?”

“Both, of I’m honest,” she confessed.

“I’m sending you out on an errand then,” you offered, “come back tomorrow morning.”

“What kind of errand?” she inquired naively.

“I don’t know, make something up,” you dismissed carelessly, only to find a blank expression overcome her face. You rolled your eyes, “Fresh octopus from a night market, and fresh macarons from a patisserie, tell them pregnant women crave strange things if anyone asks.”

“We have a pastry chef in house,” she timidly reminded.

“Well I hate his work, now get out of here,” you waved her away with a dismissive flick of your wrist.

“Mrs. Kaiba one word like that from you could get him fired,” she cautioned and you groaned.

“What is with this house?” you couldn’t help but fume, “Figure something else and take the night off, I’ll make sure you don’t lose the pay.”

She offered an animated bow, thanking you incessantly.

Turning away from her who made haste to disappear in the other direction of the winding corridor, you faltered against the single crutch as you walked with a discernible limp hindering your step.

“Where have you been?” his piqued voice rumbled through the corridor as you reached your bedroom.

“Around.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I was in the nursery,” you replied as he reached you.

“For four hours?”

“Has it been that long?” you murmured, looking very persistently at the carpet. “You wanted to see me? Why?”

“Like I said,” he spoke gruffly, entering the bedroom ahead of you, “you’ve been gone an awfully long time. Learn to keep your phone on you. It serves no purpose sitting on your vanity.”

“I suppose not.”

“Are you alright?” his voice was not tender; obligation the closest sentiment you could pin to his words.

“Yes. I’m perfectly well Mr. Kaiba.”

“What did you call me?” he turned on his heel, a line having formed between his brows, creasing his forehead concealed under a dishevelled fringe.

You hadn’t noticed the words slipping, your general unhappiness having placed that marker of unfamiliarity in place, as a form of defence you supposed. The undeniable truth was that life didn’t progress with perfect succession of events, and this was especially true for emotions. One step forward, three steps back; rather, it was more reminiscent of a game of snakes and ladders.

“Seto,” you conceded under his harsh gaze, “did something happen?”

“What I should be asking you,” he returned tersely.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t start that habit again,” he scolded. “It was obvious the moment I saw you that you had been crying. I’m giving you the chance to explain yourself.”

“Am I not allowed to cry in this house?” You queried breathily.

“You’re allowed,” he bent the word spitefully, “to do whatever you please. In return, I have an obligation to know. Why were you crying?”

“Because sometimes the reminder that you don’t have a family; someone in your court, stings, Mr. Kaiba.”

“What are you on about?” he begged with exasperation, forefinger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose. He marched towards you, his pensive gaze shiver inducing. “What do you mean no family?” he growled. “Then what do I become?”

“You have a brother.”

“And you have a husband,” he clenched his teeth as he stressed every syllable. Fisting your hand, you could feel your nails carve into your palm. “Tell me what brought this on,” he attempted with more self-possession. “You were fine this afternoon. What triggered this?”

“They are my issues to work through, not yours. Now you have a particular reason to see me or were you just concerned?”

“Don’t do this again,” he pleaded roughly. “Do you need some fresh air?”

“Don’t,” you bit, “ever tell me again to go play in the dirt. I will not tolerate being spoken down to that way.”

“Is that what this was about?” he chuckled low in his throat. “Fine, I retract that statement.” He reached over, resting his hand over your hair.

“Sure.”

“I can’t read your mind,” he pressed, patience thinning. “You need to speak for me to understand.”

“I just needed some time for myself,” you gave him the partial truth. “Everything has just been overwhelming.”

“How long are you going to keep lying through your teeth?” he resorted to intimidation, voice colliding against the walls like a thousand crashing cymbals. His concern had gotten the better of him.

You could feel something rupture, feeling he had crossed some line, a deeply intimate one.

“What would you know about childbirth?” you posed hysterically in question, your voice refusing to pale in comparison to his in intensity. “You tell me I’m expecting your child, that I’ve wanted it! What if I don’t want it? There! I said it,” your voice cracked violently there, as if a dry piece of papyrus was being torn. Yet you endured, from where your voice had come to a screeching halt, chest continuing to well with aggressive emotion, “Literally all I wanted was to run my empire. Not this, not whatever alternate dimension this is. Do you know how hard I worked to get where I am? Actually wait, no,” you laughed manically, as he watched with narrowed eyes and knitted brows. He looked menacing in his silent composure. “I’m sure you know exactly what I’ve done, it’s me that doesn’t remember. I don’t want this, I never asked for you, never asked for this child, I don’t want any of this. I don’t care if you’re sleeping with her - that assistant of yours, but tell me so I’m not left in the dark. Also be careful because I don’t want you fathering her children as long as you remain married to me as my husband. I don’t - ”

“That’s enough,” he brayed. You could feel the windows tremble in their mounts, as did the walls and as did you. “Everything you just said...” he faltered, eyes closing for a second as if to contain his tone from ascending to a monstrous pitch again, “I can overlook, except your accusations of my infidelity, because quite frankly they’re disgusting and it sickens me. Sit down.”

“No, thank you.”

“Fine, stand there then,” he snapped, stepping closer, his drilling gaze shattering nerves. “Obviously you’ve forgotten so I’m willing to remind you, but just this once and I never want this topic discussed within this household ever again, mainly because I will give you no reason to, and you will learn to respect me as your husband, the way I respect you. Do not take cheap shots at my honour, is that understood?”

You released what resembled a squeak in acknowledgment of his words.

“If you want a divorce, or to be separated from me, the fastest way to manage that is infidelity. It is as I’ve said before, the only thing that could turn me against you. There are no double standards in this marriage, what I hold you to, I expect of myself. I have no interest in that woman, or any other woman for that matter, only you. I have addressed it and I will see to it that it never happens again. On the note of me fathering children, if it is not with you, it will certainly never happen, never has happened either. Do I make myself clear?”

You refused to lift your gaze, feeling his bore holes against your crown.

He growled your name, demanding your attention. “I asked you a question.”

“I believe what I see,” you defied him.

“We’re not all your father,” he lowered his voice, intending to say more.

“Don’t bring my twisted excuse for a family into this,” you sternly interrupted.

“Fine, then let’s talk about this family,” he declared. “I told you that you had the freedom to make a decision regarding your own body.”

You scoffed wryly, “What family? That’s even worse. You don’t even want me or our baby.”

“Where on earth did you get that idea?”

“I threw my body at you yesterday, twice at that,” you recalled bitterly, “and what’s worse, I was rejected both times. Do you know how dirty and unwanted that made me feel? Meanwhile you had no problem letting her touch you. And you’re suggesting an - I can’t even bring myself to say it.” You squeezed your eyes shut for a moment, swallowing thickly, “Yes, the choice exists, and yes that’s a truly wonderful thing, but just because the existence of choice is empowering, do you think it’s an easy decision to make? And what’s worse, I don’t want to wake up one day, suddenly remembering how much I had wanted it and then regret it. I feel like I don’t have the right to make decisions over my own body because I feel like I’m borrowing it from someone I used to know. I feel like I’m a hollow shell like excuse for a human being.”

“You really should sit,” he said beginning to speak again. You dismissed his empty concerns and he continued, “You assume because I told you we married for business that it was a mutual agreement. That’s not true. I pursued you. The offer was made from my end. You had no inclination to accept at first. I married you wilfully; it was a scheme of my own design, while you did it to secure your position as CEO. And for the record, I didn’t let her touch me, what you saw was unfortunate timing.”

“You’re telling you married me to sleep with me?”

“Not solely, though I won’t deny it wasn’t a motivation. Why would I pin myself to one woman to sleep around?”

“Like you said, you had other motivations.”

Your stubbornness, though he had witnessed it a countless many times, subdued him to silence. He could only growl your name in condemnation.

“I don’t know what I want anymore,” you whispered, “and so I’m not the woman you wanted. She’s not here, and you don’t want me.”

“What is it that you want to hear?” his scratched tone was hardly audible. “Of everything I can do for you, I can’t give you your memory back.”

“I want to leave.”

“Where do you want to go?” he asked. “I’ll take you there.”

“Without you - I meant.”

“Don’t,” his anguished tone disturbed your ears.

Drawing in a sharp breath, its whisper like echo rippled through the silent room, only disturbed by the wispy curtains blowing in the wind, you turned away; the strain of your body on your weary legs growing unbearable, you intended to sit. He wouldn’t object, merely observing your intentions as you heaved yourself on to the edge of the bed.

“If the baby is too much to handle...” he husked from across the room, slowly traversing the space with languid strides.

“I’m keeping the baby,” you affirmed, having suddenly made up your mind seemingly in that very moment, though the subconscious awareness that you had always known, along with the gut-churning ambivalence persisted. You wouldn’t deny the younger Kaiba’s announcement hadn’t played some part in influencing that pendulum swing. “I could never forgive myself otherwise. You said there was already a heartbeat.”

He paused in motion. Had the breeze not been tossing the curtains up in to the air by the open window, his motionlessness would have convinced you in the otherwise still room, that time had come to a standstill. There was always that quality to this mansion you had noticed; the illusion that it was forever suspended in time, defying its flow; the walls felt alive but it lacked life. Perhaps it was the timeless elegance in its architecture, but except for when the light of the sun danced against the surfaces it touched, there was a surreal quality to its existence, as if it was eternally waiting for something to bring it life.

“You heard.” It was an accusation.

You swallowed your lips, pressing them between your teeth, feeling you had eavesdropped on a conversation addressing you; trespassed on a shrine built for you.

“I’m sorry.”

“How far - ”

“All of it, I suppose.”

“And you still want to leave me.” It wasn’t not posed in the form of a question. He wasn’t asking. At your silence he went on. “This place would be unbearable without you. I need to be where you are.”

It was such a strange thing to notice, but you noticed how he always spoke in such beautiful prose. You found yourself voicing those thoughts out loud, “You speak so romantically it’s unbecoming of what everyone’s made of you.”

“And what exactly is my nature - this character they’ve made of me?”

He felt addressing this would solve the root cause of the issue.

“Unforgiving, callous, cold.”

“Just like your opinions of me,” he spared no time mincing words. “Do you,” he then second guessed, “share those opinions about me?”

“I don’t know what you are,” you confessed. “Sometimes I find myself irrevocably attached. Other times it’s easy to see a future without you.”

It was difficult to swallow those words. “The feeling isn’t mutual, my sentiments towards you will never change.”

“Even if I may never return those sentiments? You’re okay with never being loved my your wife of all people?”

“It wouldn’t be something unfamiliar, being unloved.”

“On the contrary, you’re loved by a nation of women.”

“Infatuation of hormonal teenagers and delusional young women isn’t love, it’s obsession. What I am as you’ve so articulately put yourself is feared. You...are loved by a nation. No woman could ever replace you as my wife, or my lover because they just wouldn’t understand me.”

“How selfish,” you mused, “you only want me because I‘m comfortable.”

“No,” his voice grew rough, “I want you because you’ve become an intrinsic part of my life and I’ve grown to care for you. Though contrary to what you think of me, I’m not a saint, so yes, that is one of the reasons.”

“Not a saint,” you mulled. “In the end no man ever is.”

“What you are,” he expressed, “is lost, and confused.” He was now standing before you, his legs brushing your knees. “I can’t give you solutions when you don’t know what your problem is.” His tone and articulation was deliberate, as it always was, though now it held something else; affection. You would have said his tone held a paternal quality to it, had your connotation of what it meant to be fatherly not made your insides churn. “You’re angry, that’s a given. Did you expect this to be easy? Forgetting a quarter of your life? I didn’t. You’re a grown adult, and I need you to be sensible here. Running away from me isn’t the answer, running in general is never the answer. When you have a problem, you need to take care of it at the source. The source of all this contention is your lost memory. The way I see it, there are two ways of how this would possibly go, you may get it back, or you may never. If the first, then everything resets and we go back to living our lives. If the second, you can’t wait around feeling sorry for yourself, riding on the excuse that you don’t have the rights to your own life, because you will never confirmation that your memory is gone for good. The way I see it, expecting the worst the sooner and planning accordingly is better.”

“So what are you asking me to do?”

“I’m asking you to get some rest. If you want to keep this child, you can’t afford to get so worked up.”

“Do you want children?”

“Of course I do, and I will do everything to make sure you are around to raise this child. I will not allow our children to grow up the way we did.”

“Did you hear that?” you murmured, holding your stomach. “Daddy wants you to stay.” Tears you had not expected brimmed and trickled, and you swallowed your lips again, pressing them harshly, attempting a contrived smile. You wouldn’t deny the relief that had washed over with his confirmation, though your remark was more so a confirmation to yourself; an attempt at fortifying your own decision.

  
“I forget how young you are,” he rasped, heaving a heavy sigh as he lifted you into his arms. His blue eyes darted between yours as if in study. “You still haven’t shown me the nursery.”

“I changed my mind, I’ll keep looking.”

“Why?” he inquired dubiously.

“Because I don’t like that room anymore.”

Having searched your expression, he chortled , asking, “Let me guess, you cried in there and don’t like it anymore.” Your eyebrows climbed your forehead, amazed by his perceptiveness.  
“How do I know?” he continued to read your mind. “I know you better than you know yourself. There’s a room close to ours you might like.”

“I don’t know if I’ll like anything quite as much.”

“With ninety rooms, half of them already bedrooms, you’re bound to find something,” was his nonchalant response.

...

As the evening progressed, you found yourselves on the balcony. You were sitting on the carved stone railing, your legs around him, his arms secured around you as he stood over you.

“The Kaiba family is hosting a ball, here at the manor,” he apprised. “It was meant to celebrate the partnership between our two corporations. Given the situation, I think it would do well to hold it now to alleviate the concerns of our shareholders. Many of them seem to believe your health has suffered irreversible damage physically and there’s also rumours of miscarriage. It would be a good opportunity to clear the air.”

“When are we hosting it?”

“Next Friday,” he paused in consideration. “This would also be a good opportunity for you to showcase your mastery of culinary skills.”

“I told you I wanted to run my empire,” you reminded, “not become a housewife for you.”

“You sound offended.”

“Slightly,” you admitted, “I feel like you’re imposing archaic gender roles on me. Was your mother expected to do these things? Is that why you’re - ”

“My mother passed away when I was very young,” he grimly revealed, “my step-mother and I were never acquainted.”

“I’m so sorry,” you breathed. “I...didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell you to get your pity,” his tone remained ominous, perhaps mildly cross. “Are you not willing to?”

“What did you have in mind?” you humoured.

“Dessert would get attention.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“And there’s nothing I can do to convince you?” his tone was as rich as velvet, and as smug as a wolf’s. There was something threatening yet alluring in his complacency, a sliver of titillating darkness to his countenance. He leaned in, lips caressing your Cupid’s bow, refusing to indulge you with all of his warmth.

You couldn’t be sure about the future, but in that moment you wanted him.

There were gardeners still utilizing the last hours of sunlight; the days now beginning to be longer.

“They can see us down there,” you whispered, betraying your own desires, while your fingers sought his hair.

“Let them watch,” he husked, claiming your lips in his. He rolled his lips over yours fiercely, and indeed they watched, on and on as he made you his.

...

As the daylight stayed out to play longer, mornings beginning to greet you earlier; the days rolling deeper into the thick of summer, you woke up to late morning sunlight to find it was still early seven. Your husband’s scent lingered on the empty sheets. He had returned to work today following nearly a month’s absence.

You remembered vaguely, the way one recalls a dream, his incessant hounding for you to take your prenatal vitamins before he left for the morning. And indeed, you turned to find the bottle on the nightstand, your water glass empty. You groaned, only partially certain you had obeyed his instruction. You sincerely hoped you had, and that it had been digested, considering morning sickness was bound to be waiting, like highwaymen, eagerly awaiting to rob you of the contents of your stomach.

You had been right.

The fatigue was beginning to build, anemia only playing in your opposition, and you had found yourself increasingly bound to the bed while you read and re-read, intent to commit to memory the script of your drama. You fervently prayed you would not start to show until the conclusion of the filming, though in your current condition, it became questionable whether you would possess the vigour - especially as the days went on - to apply yourself to such a demanding work environment.

When your health allowed, you made a point of it to sit out on the balcony. If the weather was particularly agreeable, you would wander out into the garden, sometimes with your script, to also lend a hand to the gardeners.

It kept you sane; the smell of freshly turned earth and newly bloomed phlox, affording an ineffable solace and sense of grounding, as the days re-introduced you to more and more convoluted corners and alleyways you had forgotten of your life.

Late evening you stood before the bathroom mirror encrusted in a thick layer of dirt, and a thin sheen of sweat. Exhaustion; mental and physical was making your head spin.

Your husband would not be home for a few more hours, you were certain.

Relieving your sore joints in a warm water bath, you found yourself reciting your lines unconsciously, head fallen up to the ceiling. Too tangled in your own thoughts, you did not hear approaching footsteps until there was a figure kneeled beside you.

You were so absorbed in your state of silent rehearsal that you slipped out of it to acknowledge the intruder just as mechanically. Your present state of undress would only dawn over your consciousness following the lapse of a long moment. Perhaps it all happened faster than you perceived, your mind experiencing what people called a ten second lag.

As your mind thawed from it’s detached state, some form of recognition sparked of the remarkably handsome young man in the black tailored suit, quietly observing your bare form. There was a violating and arrogant look of amusement reigning over his chiseled, alabaster features; stormy blue eyes clouded with carnality.

Your eyes grew wide, your hand automatically swinging up from the water. You immediately regretted it however as he blindly seized your wrist with a crushing grip.

“I thought I’ve told you not to hit me,” he ground his teeth.

Face flooding a deep, compromising rouge, you slipped your unrestrained hand around your naked chest, pushing your legs together, knees emerging above the water, gleaming a glossy bronze, covered in a thin film of bathwater.

“And I may not have told you, but I don’t recall giving you permission to violate me by staring at me while I was naked,” you returned.

“There’s nothing on you that I haven’t seen,” he remarked complacently.

“Yes well, have you heard of such a thing as consent Mr. Kaiba?”

Averting his gaze he chuckled, inquiring if you would rather him leave.

“No,” you heard yourself mutter, realizing it was your pride which had spoken earlier. In truth, you weren’t averse to his hungry gaze lingering over your body, in fact, it was oddly arousing. “I never said that,” you added in a soft whisper.

“Then can I join you?” He turned to face you with smug arrogance, and you wondered if you would regret your invitation. He reached for the arm draped over your chest. Removing it, he let his eyes graze exposed breasts, before they lifted to meet yours, a predatory gaze undoing what remained of your composure. There was a prominent curl to one corner of his lip, his notorious smirk taunting you for how easily you had submitted to him.

“No,” you breathed, though his smirk would only sharpen.

Releasing both your wrists, he picked something up from the floor, a flat velvet box; a jewellery box from how it appeared.

“I got you something,” he husked, opening it. You drew yourself to the edge of the water, resting your folded arms over the marble.

You had seen your fair share of diamonds, and apparently, over the years, come to own an impressive, personal collection also, though it was difficult to not be at awe before the magnificent wreath of twisting diamonds and sapphires in front of you. You almost wondered if there were any diamonds left in the earth after witnessing what he was presenting you. The excessively extravagant necklace was a cascade of polished diamonds, emulating a garland of small, silver magnolia leaves, the upper curve and centre highlighted with a single string of deep blue sapphires, all plunging to hold an enormous, octagonal sapphire gemstone, set on a frame of more foliage inspired diamonds. The equally exorbitant chandelier earrings were replicas of the pendant, and the matching ring was the size of your fisted palm. You were convinced if you wore the bracelet, that it would prevent you from lifting your hand.

“I take it you like it,” he smirked, observing your rounded lips. You quickly swallowed them. Removing the necklace from the ivory silk, he draped the necklace over your chest, before reaching behind - his warm breath freezing over your wet skin - as he clasped it behind your neck. The mounted sapphire resting between your breasts, you could feel its weight push against your rib cage; the simple task of breathing growing laborious. “You look beautiful,” he remarked, appraising you, a tingling numbness running the course of your spine at his words. Placing his hand against the side of your face, he pulled you towards him. Giving you one last glance with bedroom eyes he crushed his lips against yours. You could feel your heart palpitate, beating faster.

He released you panting, streaks of water glistening on his face. You fell back over the bathtub to how you had been resting when he found you. Desperate to catch your breath, your arched back left your breasts slightly protruding from the bathwater each time your chest rose. Your nipples hardened against the cold air above the water.

You hadn’t felt him shift to lean over behind you. Turning your face over your shoulder, he drew you into another kiss.

Distracting you with his lips, he slid one hand over your exposed breasts, beginning to fondle them. You gasped into the kiss, though you wouldn’t deprive him, and as he rolled his thumb roughly over your nipple you sighed.

“That’s a good girl,” he commended, breaking away. You arched your back higher into his hand, whimpering for more and he chuckled darkly.

Your neck resting against the edge, the jewels pressing into your skin and weighing heavily over your chest, he hovered above you, watching you with animalistic desire in his blue eyes as he pleasured you. Those were the eyes of beasts, and it excited you. His fingers pinched and tugged at your nipples, forcing breathy moans from your lips. Occasionally he would lean down, stealing kisses from your lips.

You suddenly felt your nipples sting, a sharp crack of flesh hitting flesh resounding through the room. Your entire body stifled. He repeated the motion, the intensity of his slap never relenting. You didn’t know why you liked it so much.

“Again,” you begged timidly, your lips parted from the sensation which had erupted at his touch.

“That’s what I like hearing from my girl,” he throatily chortled.

You were dissolving into euphoria, your eyes closed; just the thought of the most powerful man in Japan desiring you, your body entirely exposed under his hungered gaze was enough to unravel you to your core - though he was doing much more to you than merely desiring you in that moment.

You would let him have all of you if he asked.

Once as he pulled away, you whispered with what little of your left you could find, “Is your offer to join me still open?”

The velvet laughter which left his lips was enough indication of his intentions. He dipped his hand into the bathwater, his suit sleeve soaking.

“The water’s turned cold,” he remarked, pulling away from you, and rising to his feet.

Walking around, he plunged his hand into the water once more, tugging at the stopper to drain the tub. He dried his hand with a few flicks of his wrist.  
  
Standing beside you now, he lifted you out of the water, holding one arm snaked around your form to keep your legs from folding.

There was something inherently dirty in standing, pressed naked against his fully clothed body.

“You look your best like this,” he commented, lowering his lips onto yours, “wet, and wearing nothing but jewellery I’ve put on you.”

“What?” you couldn’t help but stutter, stunned by his vulgar remark.

He kissed you ravenously for another moment before replying, “Of course, heels would be an improvement, though I suppose it can’t be helped here.” Wide eyed, you were torn between slapping him and submitting to him. “You’re so innocent,” he rasped, “it’s such a turn on.”

His hands traced down your curves, roughly grabbing your ass, pulling you closer to him as he devoured your lips. You could feel his bulging erection against you. You had deprived him, and he was famished, that much was obvious.

Seating you against the edge of the tub, he pulled away momentarily, refilling the bathtub.

Pulling you to your feet again, his lips continued his assault on yours, periodically straying to kiss and bite your neck, leaving his mark. His hands groped your ass, every so often spanking it, drawing twisted pleasure from how you writhe under his touch.

Leaving you to step into the bathwater filled nearly to the brim, he began to undress. You looked away as he reached for the waistband of his briefs. He asked for your diamond necklace, and it was shed over his discarded suit jacket besides the bathtub.

You continued to hold your gaze everywhere, anywhere away from his exposed form, even as he lifted you by the crook of your underarms, as he stepped in behind you.

Seated against his chest on his lap, you could feel his erection between your legs.

“Open your eyes, I want you to look at it,” he commanded, fondling your breasts. At your inaction, he guided your hand with a firm clasp over your wrist. “Hold it,” he growled. You reluctantly lifted your head from the crook of his shoulder, eyes still closed. You felt him wrap your hand around his length. Your eyes snapped open, swallowing thickly as you observed his size, refusing to believe he had been inside you. You would have recoiled at the touch hadn’t his hand been firmly wrapped around yours, having predicted your reaction. A suppressed grunt escaped his clenched jaw. His lips fell over your neck, showering you with kisses as your hand pleasured his erect cock, guided up and down his shaft by his own hand. “If you knew,” he groaned, “how much I needed you like this. No woman could ever make me feel this good.”  
You were trembling slightly, overwhelmed. To say that you had no idea what you were doing, what was happening; how quickly things had progressed, would be a severe understatement. “Fuck. Open your legs,” he ordered, his hand leaving your breasts.

You hesitantly complied, your knees folding out of the water. His hand caressed your body as it slid down between your legs. His fingers rubbed your swollen folds, ripping a gasp from your throat. You writhe but he wouldn’t relent.

“Does that feel good?” he inquired gritting his teeth, his other hand continuing to help you pleasure him. You sighed a wanton yes, and his chest rumbled with laughter, “You’re still mine, and dirty as ever,” he taunted, satisfied. “The things I want to do to your body.”

Removing his hand from over yours, he ordered for you to continue the motion as he raised that hand to play with your breasts.

Without warning his fingers between your legs thrust into you, and you cried out, overwhelmed by the feeling of his fingers parting your walls for the first time. Your knees snapped closed, meeting each other above the water. It was too much, and you began breathing erratically, moaning nonsense. Scolding you to open your legs, his motions remained unbroken, plunging in and out of you, while his thumb pleasured your clit.

Unravelling for him, you grew familiar with the sensation, and you relaxed against his sculpted chest. Somewhere along the way, your hand had stopped pumping his erection, though it remained wrapped around his thick shaft.

“Seto,” you moaned, “take me.”

“If you’re good,” he teased, kissing your cheek.

“I’ll be good,” you whispered, head fallen back against his shoulder. “I’ll be good, so please.”

“You promise?” he sniggered, and once again you mewled.

You could feel your legs twitch, your body edging towards a climax.

“I want you to wear that necklace for the ball on Friday night,” he advised, unexpectedly changing the topic, though his fingers were still moving against you. “Did it do anything to help your decision regarding dessert?”

“What?” Your heavy lidded eyes snapped to attention “What does that mean?”

“I was hoping it would help that decision, like it did another decision.”

You narrowed your eyes, suppressing the moan which reached your lips, “Are you implying that I’m letting you fuck me because you bought me jewellery?”

“That was the idea. I didn’t realize I was being subtle,” he smirked, pumping his fingers into faster, as if in distraction.

“Stop,” you had meant to sound intimidating, though your voice would only produce yourself in a pleading whisper. He was literally stealing the breath from your lungs. You attempted to sit up from his chest. “Stop,” you repeated with more composure, intending to continue.

Instead you came all over his hand, spasming as you collapsed back into him, breathless. You could feel his lips all over your face through your haze. You were too spent to resist him, though your anger boiled through the ecstasy.

“You’re despicable,” you cried staring up at him. “Do you realize how much that makes me sound like a gold digging whore? I can’t believe you. You’re my husband, I gave my body to you because I wanted you, not because I was impressed by your stupid wealth. I feel filthy being touched by you now.”

Indeed, only men in books were perfect.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a reference for the necklace set:  
> https://i.pinimg.com/originals/c3/3e/69/c33e6985c8b533bee0378ecbfc5b1fd0.jpg
> 
> Let me know how you felt about the ending!


	35. A Garden Of Pink English Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the reader is struggling to find her identity, from a romantic perspective as well as her public image. The corporate plot will unfold in the next chapter which is basically what this whole thing was leading up to.
> 
> To all you lovely commenters, thank you from the bottom of my heart, the last few chapters have been a storm, and honestly it would be very lonely writing all of this without hearing from all of you, I might have even stopped a while ago. 
> 
> I am falling behind a bit on the replies, but as always, will get to all of them, please keep letting me know you thoughts!
> 
> Also, since you said you liked the references, I’ll link them all down below!
> 
> Enjoy :)

He tightened around you like a vise, a serpent encircling his prey, “It was a joke,” he said, not in the least bit apologetic. His comeback felt like a joke, those words a sharp, stinging slap in the face; and not the kind that was titillating, it just hurt. You felt he was ridiculing your dignity.

“Is that what I am to you, a joke?”

He watched you, once again the only discernible movement in the room the movement of air, carrying up the wisps of vapour floating like silent ghosts to the ceiling, some adhering to surfaces of glass and mirrors, obscuring visibility.

“You’re the furthest thing to me from a joke,” he then spoke soberly. “Would I in any serious setting outside of sex say something that insulting? Do you consider my opinion of you so low?”

“Why would you be insulting to me during sex? That sounds awful.”

“Your tastes have obviously changed,” he grunted, slipping further into the water with you.

“Was this...was that your interpretation of role play?” The inquiry, as incensed as you had been making it, for the sheer ridiculousness of it prompted you to titter. “Was the great Seto Kaiba roleplaying with me? Was I into that?”

“Try teasing me one more time,” he dared, shifting swiftly to hover over your side, your back meeting the marble tub. You could hear the bathwater break against the distant edges before spilling over the bathroom floor.

“I’m still mad at you, so don’t expect me to sleep with you tonight,” you made clear. “And I’m still offended by your comment about using jewellery to have sex with me,” you condemned, shaking your head faintly, “though I will admit, your earlier comment, now that I know the context, and as you’re my husband, yes I admit, it turns me on. I don’t know what I liked before or even what my body likes now at times like this so if you know, and you’re going to do something, tell me, tell me so I know.”

“You’re handling this much more maturely than I expected you to,” he husked. You hummed, curling against his side. “So are we done?”

“I don’t see why we can’t stay here like this for a while longer. There’s more to intimacy than sex,” you murmured.

“And you would know this how?” he demanded playfully, returning your embrace.

“Why did you actually buy me that necklace set?” you instead returned with a question, still skeptical of his intentions.

“Because I thought it matched the dress you picked out,” he blandly apprised, before lifting your chin with two fingers to find his gaze, his tone descending to a seductive husk, “Besides, I want my woman to have the best things.”

“Your woman can buy the best herself,” you reminded.

He sighed with exasperation, resting his chin over your crown. “Could you put down your guard for a minute and let me spoil you? What’s the use in being the richest man in the country if I can’t do that much for my wife? It’s all I’ve wanted to do.”

“Spoil me?” you laughed. “What are you going to cover the bedroom in English roses draped with diamond necklaces or something?”

“Would you like that?” His tone was too dry for your liking as his lips languidly met your hair, then your temple.

“It was a joke,” you quickly retracted, but unbeknownst to you, the damage was already done.

Reaching the faucets to warm the water, he allowed the water to run.

Returning to your side, he pinned you under him as he leaned over your side, his wet lips meeting your warm skin and cold hair over and over, his kisses raining over your face, neck and shoulders like falling stars.

“You’re beautiful,” he would mutter every so often, and those words were always followed by, “and you’re mine.”

It made your heart flutter.

He sucked the soft skin under your jaw where he could feel your pulse on his lips. You slipped your arms around his lean form, splaying your fingers; pressing your fingertips over the sculpted muscles which protruded from his back.

“I think your daddy is a little too obsessed with me,” you giggled, tickled by his moving lips and ragged breaths, your chest welling with some emotion each time you were reminded he was all yours.

“Daddy?” Seto rasped, parting from you momentarily, a sinful smirk stretching his lips, faintly parted as he panted lightly. “Call me that again.”

You lightly slapped his chest, blushing. “You’re sick,” you chided. Fear also danced along, each time you remembered he was in your arms, you were also reminded there may come a day when he was in someone else’s. “Please don’t leave me,” you heard your voice plead, the tone a harbinger of tears. At first you wondered if he had heard, your voice inaudible against the rush of water pouring in the background. You felt his lips grow motionless against your neck, his fingers slithering towards your breasts also fell away.

“Leave?” he questioned, peering down at you, his brows drawn together over stormy eyes.

“To Yukari, or someone else. Not right now, I just...someday. Just because I don’t feel for you like I used to, I know that’s selfish but - ”

His uttered your name with a growl, wiping away stray tears which rolled over the sheen of glistening bathwater, “You could tell me you hate me, and I would still live looking only at you,” he confessed.

“I don’t believe you,” you cried, eyelids squeezed shut. “I wish I wasn’t my father’s daughter because I don’t believe you.”

He observed helpless for a moment, before reaching to hold you once again, “People aren’t possessions of other people. You’re also my wife, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that you are your own person. Not as that man’s daughter, but as your own person, listen to me when I say I won’t do that to you.”

  
The usually apathetic chairman knew well that his words couldn’t heal his young wife’s old wounds, and that they could do even little for her scars.

The truth; one he would not disclose to you on the count of his pride, was that he’d much rather shoot himself than see you aggrieved by his actions.

You toiled in earnest, desperate to hear sincerity in his words and some part of you believed you did, though it would take time for that belief to seep and spread.

Relaxing into his arms, you found comfort and rhythm in the low drum of his heartbeat.

“If you knew what I’ve done for you,” he hoarsely reminisced.

“What have you done?” you whispered back, his heart beating against your temple.

He stifled at your words, his own had produced themselves louder than he had intended.

“Nothing compared to what I’m willing to do.”

...

You woke up to draining bathwater; you were hovering above it. It took you a moment to comprehend he was holding you.

A towel hung low around his hips.

You asked him if you could wear one of his shirts instead of your nightgowns. He offered you a black sweater. You asked for one of his dress shirts he wore to the office. Stripping a hanger of one of his countless, identical white shirts which lined the entire left wall of the closet, he draped it over you who was scantily robed in a towel.

You couldn’t be sure what had inspired that request, and had he vocalized the confusion he sported on his face, you wouldn’t have had an explanation.

You were rehearsing your lines in a murmur on the edge of the bed while he was sifting through some papers in his briefcase beside you. The soft lilt of your accent melded with the rustle of his papers, until your husband’s disturbed voice interrupted your rhythmic recital.

“What did you say?” he abruptly interrogated, neck twisting so sharply you worried it would snap.

“What?” you were bewildered by the aggressive reaction. “My lines?”

Snatching the papers your fingers were gripping, “Repeat what you said just now,” he demanded, patience thinning for reasons beyond you. You watched how his eyes raced over your lines in the script, urgently searching for...what you couldn’t be sure.

“For looking after me who was young, and immature, and loving me unconditionally, I’ll forever be grateful,” you mumbled with hesitation, shyness hindering your tongue, affected by the deeply intimate prose. His narrowed gaze indicated he was dissatisfied, urging you to go on. “Next time, I promise I won’t take it for granted. I’ll recognize you first, because...” you faltered under his eyes which were now ablaze. You swallowed visibly, features contorting with concern brought on by confusion, “...because I know the power of love...more than anyone else.”  
The sheets of paper drifted like flakes of swirling snow, settling over the sheets and mixing with those in his briefcase.

He all but pounced you, as if a provoked jaguar, “That’s not your script,” he roared, “where did you hear that?”

Those words he had memorized, engraved across the walls of his mind; written on every plain surface in your handwriting. He didn’t need to read the script to know, but he was plunged so deeply into a state of disbelief that he was compelled to confirm.

Your eyes widened like that of a limp elk, transfixed by his boring gaze.

Hovering above you on the bed he repeated his query, demanding to know the origin of your words, except, the more he probed, the less you could remember.

“I...I don’t know,” you swore, petrified under his captive hold.

“Try harder!” Seto roared. “How dare you say them and not remember what those words mean!”

It was then you saw those eyes again; those blue eyes so clear, smouldering, yet without life; so beastly that they could bring a nation to its knees. If only you remembered that you could bring him to his.

How could someone so beautiful be so cruel, you wondered. Though you supposed even a rose could be grotesque.

Suki leapt to her feet from where she had been napping on your husband’s pillow, baring her teeth in confrontation as she hissed at him, her tail bushy and erect.

“You’re scaring me,” you squealed, closing your eyes, curtains of tears glazing your cheeks.

Sighing he yielded, lifting you into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist. Walking with you towards the balcony, he threw open the windows, the cold night air greeting you. Hushing you he cooed, apologizing for his gross overreaction. He would never hurt you, he swore, that hadn’t been his intention, but nothing would pacify you, tears soaking his neck.

...

He wouldn’t tell you the origin of those words, and your mind would cruelly continue to elude you.

Seto returned from his study some time after midnight. You knew it was midnight from the twelve strokes which had echoed from some distant grandfather’s clock nestled into the crook of some winding hallway - or so you assumed. The Domino bell tower had also chimed simultaneously, faraway in the night, the tolls ringing faintly over the dry rustling of leaves beyond the balcony.

In truth you were relieved to see him, finding yourself oddly unnerved by the tolls, chimes and whispering wind. You only realized you had held still, your muscles taut, surviving on a single breath, when the warmth of his chest radiated against your curved back. Your pride dictated you wouldn’t acknowledge him, and so you didn’t.

He kissed your cheek, asking why you were still awake. Your heart welled with warmth, but his words would meet silence. Seemingly unaffected by your treatment of him, he drew the comforter higher over your shoulder, before pulling you to be surrounded by him. There was an inexplicable sense of protection, of coming home. Until then, you did not know you had been waiting for something; waiting for him, his warmth, his scent, you were enveloped by his lingering warmth on his shirt all this time, his faint scent, and you did not know why it hadn’t been enough.

“I love you,” he husked, lips kissing your ear.

You parted your lips to return, but your lungs grew heavy, and the words wouldn’t come.

“I know,” you squeaked. Seto could feel those words impale him. You had never returned his confessions that way.

“I’ll pick you up for the event at the orphanage around ten from the mansion tomorrow morning,” he advised.

“You’re going to work again tomorrow then?” you murmured.

“I have to,” he chuckled. “Are you disappointed?”

“Slightly.”

“Would you like to come with me?”

“I would only be a hindrance if I did.”

“You would be anything but,” he disagreed, “but I rather you not be around those snakes. You’re too good for them. Now get some sleep.” His arm circled you tighter as his face pressed against your neck. “Good night.”

“Night,” you bade quietly.

You could feel his fingers web over your stomach, his lips faintly stretching against your neck before pressing against your skin lightly.

And suddenly, you found yourself craving him, body and soul.

It was terrifying.

...

Three forty-four in the morning you woke up to a face full of fur.

“We need to lock your mangy cat out of our room at night,” an irate voice greeted you. Bleary eyes welcomed the sight of Suki twisted like a vanilla-bean roulade between you and your husband, the tip of her tail curling and uncurling like a fern frond against Seto’s nose.

You were surprised and grateful that he hadn’t flung her across the room by her tail already.

It was instinct to laugh first at the sight, though you were sure to keep it at bay with a firm tooth against the lip. The defiantly escaping laughter reminded the pit of your stomach of the nausea - the real reason you had woken.

How you had fallen out of bed was an affair which was far from graceful, and provoked the ire of both your cat and your husband; the feline’s for disturbing her slumber, and his for obvious reasons.

Scolding you for how you should have asked for his help, he carried you to the bathroom.

Seto gathered your hair into his fist as you kneeled, hunched over the toilet, a make-shift pony-tail cascading from his closed fingers. The warmth of his large palm radiated against your back, rubbing circles over your back as you heaved and struggled.

You didn’t want him seeing this part of you; you didn’t want him to be disillusioned. It was mortifying.You weren’t enamoured enough to say you loved him, so you wondered. Though as it was, you couldn’t be sure what remained of the ‘mystery,’ him having taken care of you for three weeks in the hospital.

You slumped between his legs, collapsing into his chest, his knees folded before him as he sat on the bathroom floor, back upright against the cold wall.

“Don’t come here again when I’m throwing up,” you told him.

Asking for your reasons, “You can hardly walk without me,” he added in remark.

“It’s not something you need to see.”

“You pushing me away is not something I need to see,” he rebelled. “Is that really why? Don’t lie to me.”

You surrendered to his tone which was combination of pained and sonorous, “Which girl wants their man to see her emptying her stomach like that. I don’t.”

“Believe me when I say I’ve seen a lot worse tending to you after the accident,” he blandly apprised, his arms meeting around your waist.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“The human body still functions in a state of comatose.”

“Alright, stop,” you writhed. “No wonder you don’t want to sleep with me.”

“If I recall,” he rasped, “it was you who refused to have sex with me this evening when I came home from work.”

This sparked a disingenuous chortle from you, your sentiments towards him shrouded in ambivalence, a convoluted riddle even to yourself.

“What are you so afraid of?” he asked, his voice a grainy whisper.

“I guess I’m just waiting for you to leave me,” you confessed.

“I believe I told you that you could hate me, and that I would still live looking only at you.”

“I’m sure my father said that to my mother,” you contested.

“You can’t live in their shadows for the rest of their lives. You have no idea how tempting it is to suffer in the violent legacy my step-father left behind. Every corner I turn to at Kaiba Corp. I see shadows he left behind. Do you know how much they haunt me?”

“I wouldn’t know,” you admitted.

“We all have ghosts, but I have a family to look out for, you, my brother, and soon a child; if we all let the past determine who we are, neither of us would be here right now, having this conversation.”

“A past makes a man,” you defied, and he laughed bitterly. “A man is nothing without his roots,” you insisted.

“You always say the same thing,” he scorned, “and yet here you are without any recollection of who you are.”

“I remember my roots, I’ve forgotten my present and my future.”

“You are who you define yourself to be today. You’re not anyone’s possession or a ward of the past,” he asserted wistfully.

His harsh words would envelope you like a warm blanket.

“I don’t understand why you’re so good to me,” you mumbled, turning to nuzzle against his chest. His embrace accommodated you as you turned, as if a transforming mould.

“You haven’t done anything to betray my trust,” he advised, chin resting on your crown. Those plain words were chilling, fine hair erecting against your prickled skin.

“What would you do if I did?”

“If you did what?”

He was avoiding the question.

“If I slept with another man for example.”

“I don’t think you’d want to know,” he disclosed grimly, kissing your hair. “I have a bad habit of crushing things that disobey me.”

“You sound like you’ve killed people,” you mused.

“A lot of people are dead to me to begin with.” He kissed the top of your hair again, and a squirming sensation of static swept your scalp from where his lips touched.

At first, there was fear, then this unreasonable sense of calm overtook you. You thought yourself rather strange for feeling irrationally safe in his embrace, perhaps you were convinced you would never be disloyal to him.  
  
...

You opened your eyes to blueness that could swallow stars and universes. There was a hint of lingering magnolia in the air, overwhelmed by something else. You could have sworn you felt cold sheets beside you moments ago.

“Morning,” his hoarse morning voice commanded shivers and prickled skin. A ghost of a smile lingered on his lips, eyes coming alive to you.

“Morning,” you mumbled, hardly half as gracefully, feeling slightly disoriented by how he held you; arm curved under you, bodies pressed together. “Something smells good,” you remarked wearily, of the floral notes hanging about.

His lip curled on one end, his chest swelling with what appeared to be accomplishment. You observed how the corner of his mouth wrinkled when he smiled - or his interpretation of a smile - it wasn’t quite a dimple. You found yourself lifting your hand to his face, grazing your thumb over the creased skin.

The curve of his lip deepened, “What brought this on?” He seized your hand, bringing it to his lips. You merely observed him, watching the dust particles dancing above the both of you in the sunlight pouring over him through the drawn curtains. “Look around,” he husked.

Perplexed by the strange request, you obliged. The room was a pink ocean, transformed overnight, the floor a carpet of buds and blossoms. Silver buckets held bouquets of English roses in every hue of pink in existence. There must have been thousands, tens of thousands; perhaps more than you knew how to count. They occupied every surface; the floor, the French settees, their armrests, the coffee table and the nightstands, the window sills and even the door handle; a single bucket hung from the gold appendage. The creases of the petals glistened in early morning sunlight, the swirls of the buds laden with heavy drops of dew...except those weren’t water droplets.

Your first thought was that you must have been a heavy sleeper, the second; crazy bastard.

“A hundred thousand and one roses and a hundred and one diamond necklaces,” he whispered in your ear from behind, lips tracing your neck as he slipped an arm over your waist from behind to hold you.

Necklaces, except they all came with matching sets; clear diamonds and brilliant sapphires and pink tourmalines fell from petals like raindrop strung spiderwebs catching light, each as extravagant as the last and all incomprehensibly ostentatious. You supposed they fit the woman who was deserving of Seto Kaiba.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” were the first words which escaped.

He kissed you again, your cheek warming where his lips touched.

“I can afford it,” he dismissed.

“I haven’t forgotten who you are, I know you can afford it.” You clasped your mouth with your palm, a muffled, “My god,” escaping your restrained lips.

“Do you not like it?”

“This is so much...” you continued to lose your words, “...I - I don’t know why you - ”

“This is the least I could do for everything you’ve given me.”

“Given you?” you questioned incredulously. “My dear I don’t even remember you.”

“Doesn’t make a difference, you’re still here,” he declared, a note of despondency to his tone, “and you deserve so much more.”

Laying you supine, he leaned down.

“I feel like a fraud,” you uttered against his lips. “I don’t deserve any of this.”

“Nonsense,” he spurned, sweeping you into his arms, kissing you in this garden of roses.

...

You were wearing a nude, floor length, tulle gown, vines of embroidered, three dimensional blossoms, in powder blue and pastel pink climbing the wispy skirt and less thickly the plunging neckline. You wore a long, metallic, baby blue blazer printed with pastel herbs and floral blooms over the frock, covering your bare arms and shoulders, while a plain, black, velvet choker occupied your slender neck. A Bulgari diamond necklace adorned your raised clavicle; a wreath of white diamond and blue sapphire daisies dotting your chest. It was an alluring mix of whimsical and polished. The pair of thick, kitten heeled, velvet sling backs underneath the dress you thought charming for their floral embellishments on the heels. Your hair was swept back into a wispy bun, bright coral lipstick on your lips, contrasting the dewy foundation.

You sat on the edge of the bed, Suki having assumed the shape of a full-loaf on your lap, as the maids poured in, filing through the narrow clearings between the buckets containing the diamond strung, hundred thousand and one roses. It sounded ridiculous just repeating in your head; a hundred thousand and one roses. Who gives their lover a hundred thousand and one roses draped with diamonds?

You could see their mouths agape; appalled by the decadence. You assumed they had assisted in arranging the elaborate stunt, though you supposed one could never grow accustomed to the ridiculously ostentation sight of diamonds growing on trees. You had stared at it all morning, and it continued to at once, stupefy and bewilder you, as you knew it would for the rest of your life, each time you flicked past the photos you had captured.

They were very plain with their animosity towards you. You weren’t deaf to the rumours floating about the mansion. They were always quiet, muttered with their hands under their aprons, in quiet corners of winding hallways, cautiously looking over their shoulders for silent footsteps, whispering how you were a child, a seductress, immature and conniving, innocent and yet a whore who splayed her legs too wide open for her husband at night. They were without basis so you wouldn’t address them, they were burning in their own jealousy without you having to add fuel to the flame so why did they bother you? You’ve heard you moaned too loud when he pleasured you, your voice carrying down the hallway, that your public image was a charade; a hedonist in a child’s costume. Indeed, you’ve heard many things about yourself that you hadn’t previously known, each dramatic and wild fiction, though spending time alone in this vast manor, it became a past time to listen to them; the gossip the maids had to say of their mistress when they should have been shelling peas.

They still bowed, tilting forward their necks so stiffly as if a degree further would cause them to snap. It would have been amusing if they would.

They began plucking the jewellery off the roses. They wouldn’t dare steal from their master; their bags and pockets were checked each night and afternoon before they left the mansion.

A shy young woman with her white cap slipping too far forward weaved to greet you a pleasant morning.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, “for letting me go home early that evening. My cold had worsened to pneumonia, and the doctor said I had come not a moment too soon, or I might have collapsed into a coma...Sorry, I’m boring you with details, I suppose you don’t even remember me.”

“Did you get compensated?” you queried, stroking an agitated Suki, disgruntled by company.

“I did madam,” she bowed, “thanks to you.”

“That’s sorted then. I don’t think you want to be speaking to me. It seems the household staff has a particular opinion of me.” She looked taken aback for an instant, unable to interpret the ambiguous tone which seemed to be alluding to insight you supposedly shouldn’t have been in the possession of. “I know everything,” you whispered, lips twisting cynically, “but I suppose there’s always more.”

“Madam they - ”  
  
“Don’t defend them,” you forbade. “I want at least one person to keep their job. Of course, I haven’t decided what to do with them yet. What’s your name?”

“Natsumi, ma’am, Natsumi Sakamoto.”

“Natsumi,” you smiled, “like the season. How old are you Natsumi?”

“Twenty-one madam.”

“We are the same age then,” you considered, “so don’t call me madam, it makes me feel as if I’m fifty. Call me Mrs. Kaiba. I think everyone needs a reminder every now and again.” She would only bow. “Natsumi tell me, does my voice really carry through the hallways or do the maids flock like moths to a flame behind the bedroom door when my husband and I have sex?”

You could tell the candor of your inquiry was deeply unnerving to the young girl. She was a plain looking country girl with straight ebony hair pulled taut into a bun, a butterfly hair pin securing an unruly fringe over an unconventional place above her forehead. You wondered if you had been too heavy in your interrogation.

“They...do listen ma’am - Mrs. Kaiba.” You had sincerely expected a denial. You felt violated; this was beyond rumour. You nodded attentively, inviting her to continue, “And it’s not that they hate you per se, it’s that you’re much younger than a lot of - well, all the girls here, and it’s hard to not fantasize about marrying the richest man in the country when you’re associated so closely with him in his house -”

You hummed pensively before interjecting, “Yes I suppose even as maids, it isn’t illegal to have have imaginations. Everyone forgets their place every once in a while. You’re free to go, but since your friends love spinning the rumour mill, here’s one courtesy of me, my husband is wrapped around my finger.” You whispered the last half as if it was scandalous to divulge.

It was a brazen ploy, as your words could easily circle back to find your husband, but perhaps you were looking for trouble.

...

“Aren’t you overdressed for a scholarship presentation at the orphanage?” your husband observed as he guided you into the backseat of the car, careful to shield your head.

“You said there will be children,” you noted, as he joined you, the door closing beside him with a sharp echo. “And children like fairies,” you rationalized. “You may only be presenting college scholarships to teenagers, but I heard from Mokuba that there was a toy drive and a sundae bar for the kids.”

“You hate kids,” Seto dryly remarked, “I don’t know what you’re so excited about.”

“I don’t particularly, no,” you agreed, “but I’m going with you, so - ”

“Does it make you that happy?” he smirked, turning to you.

You nodded eagerly, “You have no idea.”

“You remind me of a mutt.”

“Excuse me?” you pouted displeased.

“Smile,” he urged flatly, “it looks good on you.”

“You know the maids listen in on us while we sleep together,” you pitched abruptly.

“What?” his voice snapped like dry twigs in late autumn, brows knitting and eyes aflame.

“I’m telling you the maids listen in on us fucking behind the bedroom door,” your temper flared, your fingers curling into fists against your skirt, “and unless that’s some twisted fetish of yours, I think that’s disgusting.”

“Who are they?” he demanded to know.

You shook your head, “I don’t care to find out.”

“I understand,” he nodded, drawing you closer with an arm around your shoulder. “I’ll take care of it.”

He kissed your temple, telling you that you looked beautiful.

You wondered what he would do if he knew what else they said about you; the hushed whispers exchanged in the pantry.

The inescapable truth, wrapped in your convoluted schemes, tattling, and internalizations was the desperate need to believe that you weren’t the girl they said you were; the yearning to define yourself, while ultimately indulging in some of their words, as they filled gaps where your memory could not.

Being beautiful in the absence of principle would mean nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Outfit: https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/427067977156307636/  
> Necklace : https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/395613148487569378/
> 
> Let me know what you think :)
> 
> I finally found an example of roses: https://pin.it/qerq6avhu7u4xt  
> Wrong colour but whatevs.


	36. Rose Gold Blood & Disarrayed Galaxies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note to thank you all for the lovely comments. Accept this chapter as thanks, all 7200 something words of it! The plot is moving forward, though it may not seem like it.
> 
> Enjoy :)

It was peculiar, the way he looked at you, it was as if you possessed something of worth, something worth looking at, and you sincerely hoped wherever he was looking, that he was looking beyond skin deep.

“Of all the women you could have married,” you investigated perhaps the deepest realms of his mind with your inquiry, “why was it me?”

“Come again?” His long lashes lifted, away from the heavy weight the contents of his phone screen had been burdening his bottomless blue eyes with. Genuine perplexity consisted those orbs; he hadn’t been expecting such a heavy hitting question, at least not in such an unlikely setting as the backseat of his car.

“Would you say that I am pretty?” you dared to know, though ultimately the answer to this question wouldn’t quench you, “...beautiful even?”

“You’re the most beautiful woman alive to me,” he husked, leaning in, the scent of his cologne growing stronger; he kissed your bare neck. There’s a reason they call you a goddess, he silently mused.

“Was that it?” you scrunched your nose.

He continued to be perplexed by your disappointment.

“Most women would be pleased with their husband finding them beautiful.”

“Was that it?” you repeated. “Did you not like me because I had substance, because I was kind, intelligent, insightful and a good companion. Was I not any of those things?”

“You are all of those things,” he answered, drawing you in with an arm around your waist. The lapel of his black suit jacket irritated your cheek as you fell against him. “What is this about?”

“I won’t always look like this,” you murmured, “my father lost interest in my mother after she had me, because she didn’t look the same - wasn’t pleasing to his eye.”

“He brought in a mistress,” Seto completed your sentence, “your step-mother was one of his secretaries if I’m not mistaken.” There was a thoughtful silence. “And you still think I’ll leave you after this child for someone like Komei.”

“No,” you countered honestly, “I’m afraid of being remembered as a woman with no substance. A pretty actress who came from wealth, married a wealthy husband and lost her appeal over time with her appearance because she had nothing else to her character.” You stirred in his grasp, focusing your gaze over his cerulean orbs cast down over you. “Seto, was I a good person?”

“What kind of question is that?” he drew his brows together. “Of course you were. Who told you otherwise?”

You shook your head.

“You told me I was a piece of work.”

He chortled, voice like a warm cup of black coffee, pressing his lips against your ear, “If only you know how much that turns me on.”

“And was that all I was? A good tool for sexually arousing you, possibly even pleasing you?”

“Alright, that’s enough,” he grunted, straightening up. He slipped his phone into his suit jacket. “Tell me where all of this is coming from.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I can’t answer your question without knowing your basis,” Seto advised. “You’re a capable young woman who didn’t know the meaning of losing and a good wife to me.”

You didn’t know why his answer wasn’t satisfying; perhaps it was because others could fulfill with their words voids you had created for yourself. Voids you didn’t know what you were seeking to fill with.

Desperate to find yourself, and by extension your role, somewhere - anywhere - you smoothed the gentle creases on his black dress pants where the fabric had gathered, dragging your hand up, palming the inner part of his thigh.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

Your palm folded, fingers wrapping around his groin; his now prominent bulge tightening against his pants. His large hand seized your slender wrist, hips convulsing unnoticeably as scorching pangs shot up through him, leaving blazing trails in their wake; leaving him throbbing at your delicate touch.

“Are you in heat?” Seto inquired through gritted teeth, mildly exasperated by when you had spontaneously elected to initiate the intimacy. “Or does this have something to do with the pregnancy hormones?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Admittedly, you couldn’t be sure what embolden spirit had awakened in you that you would so brazenly grab Seto Kaiba by his crotch. Even as his wife, you didn’t believe any other woman in your position would dare attempt something so bold and vulgar - excuse the pun, but have the balls to attempt such a feat, if you will.

You unclasped your safety belt. Unaware of the shaded pair of eyes in the rear view mirror shifting in your direction, you mounted your husband, the feathery tulle of your dress fanning across his lap.

Instinct overriding him, he released his captive hold, agilely securing his hands around your hip, certain that given your uncoordinated tendencies, you would likely collapse or collide with the seat behind you.

Your hands liberated, you cradled his groin in your palm once more, leaning into him. Seto tensed all around you, the muscles in his thighs pulled taut, though more to restrain himself.

Beyond you, Isono shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the guard beside him mirroring the motion. There was no partition to be raised.

Clearing his throat, “Watch where you are,” your husband scolded, attempting to plant you back in your own seat. He almost contemplated instructing his men to step outside the vehicle while he took care of business, concerned by the degree of arousal your defiance was inspiring in him. The young CEO had an event to attend after all. Perhaps this would teach you a lesson he considered, for initiating what he was almost certain was insincere foreplay on your part. Instead he forced you to dismount.

Forcefully latching the seatbelt across your thrashing form, this is what he needed to endure for marrying you so young, he told himself.

“You can’t do this every time you’re confused by something,” Seto quietly chastised, gripping your hand. “You’re obviously not sexually frustrated, but you’re making me with how carelessly you throw around your body. You’re a respectable young woman who built herself an empire from scratch, act up to your reputation.” His voice which produced itself hardly above a whisper was sibilant.

“Everything I know about myself,” you whispered, careful not to be overheard, “are things others have told me about myself.”

“That’s why human beings have something called instinct,” your husband hissed, failing to miss a beat between your words and his. “You may not remember taking over your step-father’s company and have no recollection of corporate matters, but from what I understand the entertainment industry is hardly any different. The world is full of snakes, believe no one except for yourself, and where you can’t, listen to what I tell you.”

“You’re insisting you’re the only person I have,” you mumbled, “that sounds very manipulative, I’m sure you realize.”

“I’m sure. Take it as you will, but I have no purpose in misleading my own family.”

“Your...family,” you allowed the words to slosh about in your mouth, as if a swig of mulled wine.

Isono informed Seto that you had arrived at your destination.

“You can trust my opinion of you and let it empower you,” he advised, “or let it tear you down as you second guess my sincerity.”

His words were punctuated by him exiting the vehicle. Straightening his suit jacket, he leaned in, offering a guiding hand.

Stepping out, your tulle skirt wound into a messy bundle in your fist, a roaring cacophony of young children’s hollering assaulted your senses. Their shrill cheering met you in waves, as did their tiny bodies, sweeping animatedly forward from the front porch of the orphanage, the throng parting around your husband as a great waves does as it meets a rock in shallow waters, before finding you, balanced on a single crutch the guard had handed you.

They clung on to your skirt, like ants to a mound of sugar; the little girls wrapping cascading layers of tulle about themselves and spinning, chanting about how they had waited for the Nation’s fairy ever since they had heard you would be coming, last week.

It was astounding to you to find so much happiness in a place with so much desperation and lost hope.

Your eyes lifted to find your husband’s, he had mentioned in the passing that he had briefly passed through an orphanage when he was younger - though not this particular one - and while he would not recount the experience with any detail, the vague recollection had sounded tortured. He met you with a stony gaze, his eyes hollow voids.

A detail of guards surrounded you at a dismissive flick of your husband’s fingertips. They attempted to distance the children bubbling with unrestrained mirth and awe as they danced around you.

Rejecting their efforts, you knelt, to be immediately ambushed by an overzealous young boy, tackling you into a hug, effectively knocking you back against the closed car door. The friends of this wild rugrat, young children never ones to pass up a golden opportunity, conquered your small form as they flocked to also receive their share of affection.

The pile of children was peeled painstakingly one writhing toddler at a time, by a very concerned and discernibly piqued Seto, and his guards.

Reproaching you for dismissing his guards earlier, Seto anxiously inquired if the baby was possibly affected, before finding the composure to inquire after your condition. Laying his concerns to rest, you allowed him to brush the stray wisps of hair from your face, before he led you to greet the awaiting staff, to be welcomed by the chairman and deputy chairwoman with warm handshakes.

The scholarship awarding ceremony passed without event, in a modest, dusty auditorium smaller than the dining hall at the mansion. The space appeared as if it was severely in need of a good dusting, everything from the timeworn wooden stage, to the scratched wooden floorboards and dull, mulled wine hued velvet curtains, though it was obvious that the dust had woven itself into the very fabric of the establishment, and no amount of housekeeping would wash away the exhaustion of the place. Contrasting the gaiety of the children outside, desolation and lost hope was spun into the atmosphere, the air practically wreaking of desperation.

Your husband refused to award more than a handful of the scholarships, despite what you had come to know of him growing up as a boisterous master of ceremonies. Perhaps this wasn’t his element, you surmised, or contrarily, perhaps it was too much his element.

The disparity was jarring; these were young adults hardly a several years younger than you. It had never been so rawly presented to you; more cruelly perceptible the podiums of privilege; how unequal a hand each is dealt at birth, and more applicably, how unequal a deck of opportunities one was presented with as they lived.

You wrapped your hand daintily around Seto’s wrist as he returned to his seat to the left of you, his expression consistently sombre. His brother’s reflected the same beside you, his usual wildness lost beneath a veil of dejection.

Their board executives sat grinning like foxes, ascending to the stage with eager, disingenuous visages, as if they were dealing a great justice to the less fortunate portion of society by their great hands, while leering at the numbered cameramen, littered across the front of the stage and amongst the perfectly lined rows of old blue, plastic chairs.

“They’re turning this into a circus,” your husband growled, grinding his teeth.

You could only tighten your fingers around his arm, awaiting the conclusion.

The ceremony did soon draw to a close, followed by a very discernibly over rehearsed thank you speech from one of the highest achieving recipients.

Outside, the wives of the directors scrambled for their fifteen seconds of fame, rushing to cradle the playing infants into their arms, carefully shielded with gloves - surely to be soon disposed - climbing their elbows. They smothered the children against their overly-ripe fruity perfumes and tweed skirt-suits in varying shades of drab pastels, always accented with pearl brooches on their lapels, holding them as if they were a litter of possums or something of the sort; creatures they couldn’t wait to dispose of once the cameras were finished clicking.

Beside them was an assembly line for ice cream sundaes, other desserts, and a barbecue station for lettuce wraps led by their daughter-in-laws, the servants they had brought from home, along with the orphanage staff.

Addled by a sore ankle and an aching knee, slumped over a crutch, you watched the shameful display while aggressively biting back the bile climbing the back of your throat; which was likely a symptom of pregnancy rather than what you were observing you hoped, though it was difficult to be certain.

You were joined as you watched on by your husband, his brother, along with his newly-pregnant partner for whom you couldn’t yet find a sensible title.

“Like I said,” Seto scorned, “a fucking circus, complete with trick-performing monkeys. We can leave now.”

“No,” you protested, “I want to go help those girls make those wraps.”

“Dressed like that?” your husband questioned, though his tone conveyed more amusement than opposition to the motion.

“That is usually reserved for maids and daughter-in-laws who are particularly hated by their husband’s mothers,” Mokuba interjected. “For Seto’s wife to be -”

“I’m sure I would have been hated by my in-laws too,” you tittered, deducing the statement from what little knowledge you possessed of your husband’s adoptive father.

You worried perhaps if your words had been of poor judgement and said in ill timing, instead your husband stifled a laugh against his fist, encouraging you to go.

...

In your absence, Mokuba turned to Atsuna, encouraging her to join.

“Oh no,” she coyly declined, clutching her stomach, “It’s difficult work when you’re expecting.”

“If you’re going to make pathetic excuses, at least make it a good one,” Seto snarled, stalking off.

...

It had sparked a great deal of frustration amongst the wives of the directors when you offered your assistance with the refreshment preparations, as it now carried the silent implication that they were obligated to join, so as to not insult your standing, above them. This overtone was only fortified with the joining of the younger Kaiba, inspiring further vexation.

His grey suit sleeves rolled up, his untamed tousles bound back by a rubber band, he inquired what he could help you with. Handing him the tongs and spatula for one of the grills, you stationed him beside you.

“How are you holding up?” Mokuba questioned, having discovered a pace and rhythm to his assigned task.

“It depends on what you’re asking about,” you returned ominously, while forging a smile as you handed a folded lettuce wrap to a young boy across the white plastic draped table; the table cover flapping noisily in the wind.

“I heard he let you bring in a stray cat,” your brother-in-law opted to veer considerably off topic.

“Yes.”

“You wouldn’t believe how surprising that is,” he disclosed eagerly, “I mean, we are talking about the same man who wouldn’t let me keep an ant farm.”

“Is that right?” you laughed. “But I mean, you were a kid, and I’m an adult, so it’s not quite the same thing. Though I have to admit, I’m surprised Seto hasn’t dropped her out of the balcony considering how many times she’s put her ass in his face while he’s sleeping. His pillow seems to be her favourite napping spot.”

“He lets her on the bed?” Mokuba’s voice erupted at the revelation, charcoal eyes rounding, startling the few children gathered about and gaining the attention of one of the daughter-in-laws of the directors you had become acquainted with, serving beside you. You hushed him as he continued. “Who are you,” he begged in a whisper, “and what have you done to my brother?”

You swallowed your lips, smiling coyly, “I take it he’s not usually like that.”

“Of course he’s not usually like that,” he clicked his tongue. “Even with what’s left of your memory, you must still have heard what kind of person he usually is to people, unless you lived under a rock most of your life.”

“I kind of did,” you divulged lowly, the evoked memories harrowing old wounds.

“What?”

“Never mind. Why are we whispering?”

“I don’t know,” he chucked, “but in all seriousness, he loves you very much. He may not act like it, but he’s super excited for the baby to come too...” His voice dropped a discernible register as he continued, suddenly somber, “He’s just afraid you might end up like our mother trying to give him children. So even if you don’t remember liking him, don’t push him away too much because he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if you leave him.”

“I’m sorry,” you interrupted, “what happened to your mother, if you don’t mind me asking.”

“She passed when I was born.”

“I’m so sorry,” you announced reflexively, mortified.

“It...was a long time ago, I obviously never knew her. Probably affected Seto though,” he mumbled soberly, turning the meat searing on the grill. “As I was saying, when you were in that accident, you needed a lot of blood, and most of those transfusions came from Seto. He wasn’t doing that well either - ”

You interrupted him. Not with words, rather, you interrupted him with the heavy clang of tongs against porcelain. You hadn’t dropped it; pointedly placing it down. He inquired if you were alright, to which you were almost certain you said yes. Why did the divulgement feel so heavy, so burdensome? Owing favours you avoided as a principle. You felt you were bound to your husband now, more intrinsically than before, in an inescapable, cult fiction, a contract signed with blood sort of way. You could feel nausea stick a finger down your throat, stirring you. You supposed being pregnant with his heir, having his blood running in your veins was hardly a dramatic-damsel-in-distress-faint-worthy complication, and it wasn’t, it was just a nuisance, and sickening. It was less that he was a part of you, to be exact, and to be dramatic in your usual fashion, you felt his life force was governing you like some marionette; you felt like his possession.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” you told him, snatching your crutch from where it was propped.

Trailing your hand along the wall of the red-brick building, you vaguely registered stumbling into a communal washroom; red cement tiles climbing half the walls, discoloured white upper walls and ceilings, and greying bathroom stalls with letters and messages etched all over, revealing the brown skeletons of the white-washed wood.

The nausea wasn’t your imagination, for you actually did heave, though you would really rather not have in that place.

In that place you met another thing you wished you could have made disappear at whim; your husband’s executive assistant. Her silk gloves draped carefully over her forearm, a powder blue tweed jacket balanced on her slender shoulders; concealing the tailored bodice of the ruffled, cascading blue dress. She was washing her hands.

Washing away our sins, are we, Lady Macbeth, you snorted internally, turning the faucet beside her. It must have been left over instinct to despise her.

In the mirror, you caught the reflection of the coiled silver dragon, nestled against her prominent décolletage.

“A humble pawn can still slash a queen,” she abruptly declared, depriving you of context, flicking her hands, as she appraised herself in the mirror, her neck pulled taut like an ostrich.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Also, Mr. Kaiba’s game of choice isn’t chess, it’s duel monsters, and in duel monsters, even a low level monster can evolve.” Stripping a brown paper towel which better fit to be sandpaper from the rusting dispenser, she left those words as a parting remark, befuddling you entirely.

You could not make sense of a single word of the exchange, and yet it left you inexplicably piqued.

...

Navigating yourself outside again, now craving the solitude of your own bedroom, which, upon review was actually his bedroom you were boarding in, just as you blood was actually his blood and it continued to be nauseating. You tried to recall how long it was your high school biology professor had said the typical lifespan of blood cells were, though not that it would have mattered, his DNA would undoubtedly be woven into the fabric of your being by then. That was a truly repulsive thought.

Stumbling between your existential crisis and your identity crisis, you almost paid no mind as you chanced upon you husband, in the act of something you never thought he would even entertain.

“I thought you said you had three Blue Eyes White Dragon cards,” the young boy seated across the picnic bench whined, his limbs flailing in protest, the scoop of chocolate ice cream on his cone threatening to take flight with each convulsion.

“I do,” your husband groused, “I just don’t have one with me right now.”

“Then are you even the real Seto Kaiba?” the boy dared to challenge, folding his arms petulantly, puckering his lips into a pout.

“Look kid,” Seto chided, “I am the real me, and I’m not playing another round. You’re obviously not going to beat me, and a deal is a deal.”

Painfully curious about this intriguingly cryptic exchange between the feared, young corporate CEO and younger boy who appeared to be no older than six or seven, you cowered behind a wall, the shade of the indoors concealing you in shadow.

The next moment was filled with shrill wailing, and you ducked out to find the scoop of chocolate ice cream now adorning the neckline of a little girl’s pink, daisy dress, the sticky trail of melted chocolate staining her reddening cheeks.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Seto clicked his tongue, obviously exasperated. Rising with lithe grace to his feet, he swept the crying infant into his arms, carrying her to a nearby tap. Tugging his dress pants up as he knelt, he yanked away the coiled garden horse, cranking the faucet, catching with one hand the erupting water. He gently lowered the little girl’s face into his cupped palm, washing the trails of chocolate away. “Find someone to change you out of that dress,” he told her, setting her down.

The little girl toddled away, followed closely by the spirited young boy, who left a rather dramatic remark before his departure; “Mark my words Seto Kaiba, if you won’t adopt me, I’ll convince your pretty wife to!” he said.

“You can come out now,” your husband suddenly declared, turned away, seemingly summoning no one in particular. You stood still as a pillar, your dress defiantly blowing in the breeze, the edges of the skirt escaping the shadows highlighted by golden sunlight. “I know you’ve been standing there,” he called your name, and irascible edge to his address.

You appeared behind him, a sudden subservience to your demeanour.

“That boy just now, what was he on about, how did he know I was your wife?” These were the first words you could think to speak.

“He said he overheard some conversation,” he apprised, approaching you, “thought he could blackmail me into a duel, the wager being that if he won, I adopted him.”

“It seemed to have worked.”

“I humoured him.”  
  
“Where on earth would he get such a crazy idea?” You couldn’t fathom the thought process.  


“If you ever get your memory back, you’ll know,” he vaguely responded, standing before you.

“What does that mean?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he wouldn’t indulge you. “Are you ready to go home?”

“Can we - ”

“We’re not adopting him,” Seto sternly asserted, lacking the patience to hear you through to the end.

“No, I meant can we go now?” you corrected.

Offering a stiff nod, he marched past you, motioning for you to follow.

You observed him walk; his purposeful, long strides. How awful it was you thought, that you felt disgust instead of gratitude for your life saviour; for the man who truly seemed to crave nothing of you besides your affection for him in its most sincere sense.

At the end of the day, what was the weight of a human heart?

You didn’t want to be a bad person, and arguably, the definition of the phrase carried many variations. Here, you didn’t want to be an ingrate; painted with the typical colours of a villain. If that was what you had been previously, you would shade over those lines. So swallowing thickly your disgust, masking your reservation, it was these thoughts on repeat which propelled you forward.

Your arms snaked his waist, your head pressed against his back. He almost staggered, coming to a halt.

“It’s such a relief,” you breathed, “to know you’ll make a good father for our baby. Thank you. Some part of me really did think I would be alone.” It wasn’t what you had intended to say, but the truth required courage, and you were a coward.

He turned in your arms, a concerned gaze weighing his eyes, “It disappoints me that you thought for a moment I would leave you alone.” He rested his head on yours; you could feel his chin against your crown. “We’re going home.”

“Alright.”

...

“I didn’t realize you had the time to sign autographs for the children,” Seto inquired grimly, grimacing at his phone screen as he scanned some article on his phone.

You slipped your heels off, curling your toes, feeling small, relieving, detonation like sparks through the ball of your foot. Tugging at your safety belt you leaned forward, peering at his phone screen, understanding that the reporters had gathered some of your autographs into a collection, and scraped together an article out of the incident you didn’t think was particularly interesting or noteworthy.

“When I was making sundaes,” you explained, “a bunch of little kids asked for it.”

He hummed ominously, “I see.”

“What’s the matter?”

“You signed with your old autograph.”

“What?”

“A while after your step-father passed, around the time your memory stops I imagine,” he informed, “you altered your autograph, adding an abstract star at the end to honour his memory, or something to the effect.” Your face wrinkled in dismay, perturbation flooding you. “Just practice the new one when you get home and use it going forward,” he advised, observing the distress, “it won’t be an issue.”

“Someone’s bound to catch on,” you mumbled, nibbling on your nails out of nervous habit.

Lowering your hand, he sighed, motioning to speak again, you imagined to assure you it would be fine. Instead he was interrupted by your unceremonious coughing; the convulsions so severe that they bordered dry heaving.

Scarlet leaked from your lips, smearing against the back of your hand.

You didn’t recall applying lipstick quite that shade this morning.

Your husband barked for the car to be turned around, directing the driver towards a hospital. It was then you understood why your mouth tasted of some heavy metal; the back of your throat unmistakably burning with the taste of iron.

Pressing his much larger hand against your lips when blood began to seep from your hand which served as a poor barricade, he drew you against him, comforting you with the promise that it would be alright.

Tears blending into the pouring blood, you dyed his white dress shirt rouge.

The medical personnel mobilized at an instant at the presence of Seto Kaiba at their doorstep, or perhaps it was the sight of pouring blood smeared all over the two of you, likely both.

...

You were beginning to tire of sickeningly austere hospital walls, hospital sheets, hospital robes and regardless of how much money your husband threw to secure the most extravagant, exorbitantly priced suite, these seemed to be inescapable. Perhaps you simply hated the premise of the establishment in general, given where you had restarted your life.

You were advised that likely, extensive stress had caused the episode of severe reflux, and that your esophageal and stomach lining were beginning to display signs of ulcers. Currently, they were coated in a think gunk, anti-acid or something of the sort.

The scraping of the door against the floor rail as it opened, your eyes diverted from the expanse of the pastel city fogged in late afternoon sunlight, stories and stories below. You expectation to find cerulean eyes, your discharge paperwork in hand, met with raven ringlets like a twisting black river. She turned to present you with a bloodless face, a dramatic widows peak crowning her wrinkling forehead.

She was what you always imagined death looked like, and perhaps she was; one of its many visages. She had certainly tried to kill you many times. And as when death came to collect, your blood ran cold, freezing beneath warm skin.

  
A magenta dress hung on her emaciated figure; you almost contemplated asking if your great father, the honourable parliament minister wasn’t feeding her properly - of course, you couldn’t be sure how he occupied himself these days, whether he was managing some obscure portfolio or retired and basking in French sunlight; he was always a traitor after all.

Instead you cowered, saliva turning bitter on your tongue, in it drowning all the words you had rehearsed endlessly to say to her if you saw her again. You would never cower, you had promised yourself, never allow yourself the dishonour of feeling vulnerable.

And when all that failed; Seto Kaiba was your husband, you screamed at yourself, you had his blood running through your veins, his blood boiling in your chest.

Perhaps you were destined to play the coward.

“Seeing your name on the door, I did wonder,” she squawked, “it is you.” You couldn’t fathom what she was so delighted about. Her victorious lilt a rusted knife playing your nerves. “Your father had an episode of high blood pressure. He’s in a suite down the hall, would you like to come say hello?”

“What else would I have left to say to that man?” you defied, averting your gaze beyond the large window.

“Yes, what indeed,” she squawked mellifluously - squawked the only appropriate descriptor of her utterly irritating tonality, though she always sounded as if she was a tobacco smoking pre-schooler singing an insulting nursery rhyme. “What would the girl who seduced a pedophile have to say after all these years?” Ambling forward, she planted herself on the foot of your bed.

“My step-father was a great man,” you defended, indignation plain in your manner. “He was a far cry from the pathetic excuse for a father I was given at birth. He gave me an education, and - ”

“And left you a fortune so you could snag yourself a rich husband, though would Seto Kaiba still consider marrying you if he knew what a slut you were.” The word slut she smothered against the roof of her mouth as if a popping bubble of chewing gum

“How dare you,” you ground your teeth, your composure decimating. “What do you want from me?”

“You’re the same as always.” She abruptly pounced forward, giving you a start. “You should never have left that basement.”

“I’m married now,” you found yourself saying, at the edge of your sanity, shaking your head with a smile which bordered manic, “he won’t let you touch me. He’s not going to let anyone touch me!”

“Stop hiding behind a man you haven’t even married yet,” she began to roar, the assault of the sliding door against its door frame as it closed interrupting her words; the thunderous clash resembling the falling blade of a guillotine.

“I thought I’ve told you,” pure venom spoke in the absence of anything which resembled humanness, “that if you touched her again, I would not hesitate in breaking your hand off your wrist.” Seto prowled forward, eyes darkened to onyx.

Your step mother wilted away, stuttering excuses, “I’m doing you a favour Mr. Kaiba, you don’t know what she’s like - ”

“I know her better than she knows herself,” Seto bellowed, his English a wild roar, breaking against the walls. “I don’t recall asking for your input. What I do recall is my very genuine threat to you if you touched my person again. Let me extend that, come anywhere near her again, and I will break your neck, and make sure your children don’t see the light of day, the same way you did to her. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” she squeaked, disappearing like a candle in the wind.

...

“If you’d like - ” he faltered. “There’s no need for a scan, but would you like to see the baby?”

“Just take me home,” you asked of him, nervously picking at your cuticles.

“I had Isono bring you a change of clothes,” he offered, setting down a department store bag. “I tried to instruct him on what you usually wore.” He stood awkwardly for a moment, as if a pillar accidentally erected in the wrong spot. “Would you like me to leave while you change?” he inquired, clearing his throat. At your silence he turned to walk away.

“Have you seen the baby?” you asked after him, your voice carrying like the air blown from a flute in the wind; thin, and barely audible as it reached him.

Nonetheless he turned.

“Yes,” he answered, continuing after a thoughtful pause, “I have.”

You could feel your fingertips shaking; that’s where it started, before the trembling sensation blanketed your whole body, every limb and every muscle fibre.

“Why are you crying?” he gruffly inquired, walking to sit beside you.

“I don’t know, I just feel like - I have this memory or something, wanting to see you see it for the first time, and now, I’m never going to be able to.”

“That’s why I asked you if you wanted to see the baby,” he rasped, “the nurses have the ultrasound ready if you want to.”

You shook your head, hair falling forward like matte curtains, dulled by hairspray, “It’s not the same.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“If you stop crying, I’ll take you out for ice cream again.”

“I don’t want ice cream,” you snivelled.

“What do you want?” Seto dared to inquire, a sinking feeling plaguing him at the pit of his stomach, knowing he would very likely regret his query.

“I want another kitten.”

“What?” As extensively as he had considered the possibilities, the young president would admit he had not expected that.

“Suki needs a playmate,” you sobbed, “when I go to work, she’ll be all alone in that place by herself. I don’t even like staying there when you’re at work, she’ll be miserable.”

“You don’t like staying at the mansion?”

“It gets lonely,” you confessed.

“Fine,” he conceded, unable to believe the words escaping his own mouth. “Let’s go buy you another mangy fur ball.”

“Adopt.”

“Whatever.”

“Can Mokuba come?”

“I can ask,” your husband agreed, less than pleased.

...

Late that afternoon found you with an orange tabby cradled against your oversized navy blazer your husband was convinced matched your preferences. The metallic chain of the embellished brooch on the jacket’s lapel highly fascinating to the kitten. If you must confess, you had adopted her as she had relentlessly followed your husband around the facility, screaming at him for his attention. Her curious ability of irritating him to no end had resonated with you. His brother had also championed the choice.

“That’s ridiculous,” your husband derided from the seat beside you, “cats don’t need to be fed with a bottle.”

“It’s good practice,” you defended, extending him the bottle of milk. “Would you like to give it a go?”

“I didn’t realize you were going to be feeding our newborn with a bottle,” he declared, staring out the window, ignoring your outstretched arm quite plainly.

“I didn’t say that,” you mumbled, reserving yourself to feeding the kitten who insisted on clawing at the bottle instead of suckling. “Cats also don’t need diamond collars around their necks last I recalled either,” you added in remark, receiving only a dismissive huff in response.

Arriving at the mansion, Suki hadn’t been particularly pleased by the new arrival, her tail puffing in display of her discontent.

“Finally, me and the hair ball agree on something,” Seto groused, discarding the grey suit jacket he had changed into over the foot of the bed. Suki was quick to curl up on the garment, having tested its level of comfort with a quick knead with her claws. “Bloody cats are taking over the house,” he groaned, heading towards the closet. “You owe me a new suit.”

“You’re controlling all my finances at the moment,” you reminded, “help yourself.”

“You’re insufferable,” you heard him spit from within the confines of the closet.

...

The sky hung like an endless canvas flicked with streaks of silver dust beyond the grove of oaks, surrounding the mansion grounds which stretched further than you’ve managed to explore, ending in a grove of oranges you were told, giving way to an orchard.

You imagined the orange grove and orchard would be in full bloom this time of season, though it was the elusive galaxy which floated above it, much beyond even the distant night sky which was fascinating to you as you lounged on the chaise under the windows besides the French doors which led to the balcony. You wondered if you would find a sense of belonging in the disarray of stars and chaos of nebulas. Every star seemed to hold some place, some purpose, and when it no longer did, it ceased to exist. You wished you could erupt into stardust, and be swept away by solar winds, away from the burden of living.

His blood was too heavy to carry. You imagined this was how the sea felt, constantly carrying salt.

Behind you, the cats had drawn some form of truce, dividing your husband’s pillows equally between them. You couldn’t be sure what it was about his scent that attracted the felines. You needed to smell his shampoo the next time you were in the bathroom. You wondered if the notes of chypre in his shower products bore a resemblance to cat-nip.

Your attention drowned in the infinite night sky again, wishing yourself away, far away. You were so invested in your fantasy that you had grown oblivious to the quizzical gaze appraising you.

Seto sat behind you, wrapping his arms over your hunched form, knees drawn to your chest, draped in a grey-blue, woven throw blanket.

“What’s the matter?” he inquired, firmly pressing his lips over the raise of your cheekbone from behind. “It’s past midnight, why are you still awake?”

“The stars just seem so pretty,” you mindlessly mused, “it’s such a pity they are so far away.”

“Do you want me to bring them to you?”

“As rich as you are, even you can’t break the sky open,” you chortled.

“On the contrary,” he challenged, “I can take you to them.”

“How?” You would let him humour you.

“I have a space station. I can take you there.”

“The earth must seem so much prettier when you’re look at it from far away.”

“It does,” he agreed. “Do you want to go now?” your husband offered, his breath tantalizingly falling against your ear in spite of your current sentiments of him.

You hadn’t expressed it, but it was difficult to accept that your husband just happened to own something as spectacular and random as a space station. His declaration of it had been so plain and ordinary, as if he were announcing his ownership over a football stadium. You supposed you shouldn’t have been surprised, he was a different caliber of man, yet still, it was a difficult discovery to recover from.

“No,” you eventually said. There was no need to impose on him any more than you already were; living in his home, depending on his security, your heart pumping his blood. There had been a sense of guilt writhing in you since the earlier episode of the reflux. You felt you had wasted what he had given you. “Thank you,” you murmured, “and I’m sorry.”

“For?”

“For wasting what you gave me.”

“Which was?”

“I lost a lot of blood today.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he confessed, resting his head over yours from behind.

“I heard about the transfusions,” you admitted, “how could you, you weren’t in good shape yourself from the accident.”

“Who told you that?” his tone bore unconcealed ire, you assumed at you possessing the knowledge. “My brother?” he began to deduce at your silence. Your continued silence was confirmation. “I wanted you to have the best.”

“I didn’t realize we had the same blood type.”

“You sound displeased.”

“I feel like I belong to you now.”

“Of course you do,” he spoke with conviction, “you’re mine.”

“People aren’t livestock, they don’t belong to other people,” you contested.

He had grown fond of the overly- perhaps ridiculously - romantic sentiment that couples belonged to each other, bound by loyalty, affection and trust, and your rejection of the notion was deeply hurtful.

“I don’t recall caging you.” His pain manifested itself as indignation and ridicule. “You’re your own person as I always tell you, you’re free to do what you want.” He motioned to part from you when you spoke again.

“She said she wanted to take me back to that place.”

He knew exactly what you were referring to, but tonight, rather, in those early hours of the morning the young chairman didn’t possess the patience nor the capacity to mollify his wife, so instead he resorted to what some would undoubtedly call foul play.

“I forgot to give you your medicine,” he announced, separating from you.

“You already gave me my medicine for the reflux,” you reminded, certain that the memory had slipped from him under the strain of work.

“No,” he lied, “there was one I forgot.”

Retrieving the syrupy cherry flavoured concoction from his nightstand, he urged you to drink from the small, disposable measuring cup shallowly filled with currant red liquid.

“What is this for?” you inquired skeptically.

“Would I poison you?” he growled, tipping the cup against your lips.

“It tastes like the cough medicine you gave me the other night, are you sure they filled the prescription properly?”

“I checked twice,” he fibbed, relieved you were as susceptible to the effects of cough medication as severely as his brother had been.

Mere minutes must have passed - within which he had peeled two very antagonistic felines off his pillow, and displaced them on the floor by their diamond collars, and chided you for attempting to crawl into bed without brushing your teeth, and you were practically dozing off on your feet.

He would almost have felt apologetic as he cradled your sleeping form in his arms, had he not had a meeting to attend at seven that morning.

He was notorious for taking care of business in unconventional ways; there was no reason for that habit to not occasionally bleed into his domestic affairs.

 

Sentiments Seto was unfamiliar with welled in his chest as he recalled how you had bravely asserted that he wouldn’t let anyone touch you.

At the end of the night he whispered as you slept, that he would be there with you till all those stars and galaxies you loved so much died, and much long after. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts :)


	37. Adronitis & Rusting Clay Cliffs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couldn’t be asked writing an actual plot. Fluff and failed attempt at writing smut though...well it still happened. 
> 
> The title is a combination of the frustration of how long it takes to get to know someone/ relearning them/ their expectations in all their depth in combination with poorly constructed ledges of one’s own design, that’s precarious and threatening to fall. I hope it accurately captures the reader’s emotional place. 
> 
> Something from her bucket list comes up here, guess where. 
> 
> Enjoy.

“I didn’t know you drew,” you remarked, leaning over your husband’s desk in his study.

He responded without distracting from the flat screen which was occupying the entirety of his desk; the mechanical pen leaving a trail of pixels in its wake, “Who did you think developed character designs?”

“Animations? Artists?”

“If I left it to those monkeys, I might as well let my corporations run itself into the ground.”

“You’re really good at this,” you commended, observing how expertly he flicked his wrist as he drew.

“I’m aware.” He allowed you to stand there idling for a few more moments before setting down his pen, bestowing you his undivided attention. “What are you doing not sleeping?” he inquired. “It’s past eleven.” That you had been attached to him by the hip ever since he returned home from work had not gone unnoticed, and while he was not averse to being followed by you almost into the shower, he was weary of your motives. This couldn’t be some elaborate scheme to leave him, he persuaded his anxiety.

“I seem to sleep better when you’re in bed. I slept really well last night. It’s nice not waking up every few hours nauseated.”

His lip curled sinisterly, “Did you?” He was too unapologetically devious to do himself the disservice of crediting the cough medicine, so he maintained the charade, exploiting the opportunity where his wife was requesting his presence in bed. He drew you forward, across the table by your chin, grazing your lips with his. “Do you?” he chortled. “Do you sleep better when I’m in bed?” He was taunting you, his undertone was hardly surreptitious.

Your convictions were this; if you could not undo his benevolent deed - he had saved your life a grand total of three times now - instead of sitting still, being constantly burdened by the reality, you would pay him your dues. For a man of his stature and wealth, your standing in society and personal estate were meaningless. What he craved the most you’ve learned, was your companionship and affection, so you would indulge him, perhaps even see how much of your unwavering presence it took to smother him.

Except, he would never tire of you; he never grew tried of the things he came to be attached to. Either something was mediocre and repulsive to him, or he was irrevocably attached, he knew no medium.

“Advise me on something,” Seto abruptly requested.

“You want my counsel on something?” you questioned incredulously. “Me? The girl who couldn’t remember how old she was?”

“You have sober judgement, something I lack occasionally with my temper.”

“Occasional temper?” you challenged tittering.

He grimaced, leaning forward on his intertwined fingers. He may have clicked his tongue.

“The paternity tests I ordered from the Ashikagas all came back positive,” your husband apprised grimly, his lips drawn into a thin line against his flinty expression. With one hand, he tossed a collection of manila envelopes across his desk, having produced them from one of his many drawers.

Gingerly you appraised the medical certificates, one by one.

“Did the doctors know the paternity test was done for a Kaiba?” you inquired from Seto, noting how none of the reports carried any mention of the father, only the DNA sample Kaiba Corp. had anonymously provided.

“Of course not,” Seto grunted.

“A Buccal scrap test was conducted for the parents...” you observed, “but the DNA probes between Atsuna, the baby and the owner of this DNA matches too perfectly on all reports. It could either mean the test was tampered with, or that this family really will have another heir.”

“Impossible,” he rejected, “I had my men overlooking the entire process.”

“Would you support them then, if she really was - ”

“She isn’t,” he was adamant, brooding over his laced fingers.

You swallowed your lips in thought, “I do have another way,” you proposed.

Your husband merely arched an eyebrow in response, seemingly intrigued.

“I - you’re not going to like this, but I can have the testing done through Eisuke and Soryu. The Ashikagas can’t manipulate anything that deep in the black market. If you’d like, I can give you the results you want.”

“Are you suggesting we manipulate the results?”

“Worst case scenario - need be. If that’s what it takes to satisfy you.”

You realized how depraved the proposition was, and yet if it would put him at ease, you were willing to. You felt you were swerving uncontrollably towards the edge of a precipice; a point of no return; yet you couldn’t seem to summon your moral compass.

“I didn’t expect that from you,” Seto admitted, staring up at you calculatingly.

“I owe you...my life, many, many times.”

“I didn’t save your life so you could sacrifice your morality.”

“If that’s what it takes to protect this family,” you whispered. “I’ve never had a family.”

He sighed your name; he spoke with endearment, though it was difficult to not feel patronized. In the absence of your memory, you were likely as useful as a vulnerable child to the Kaiba family, in fact you were a weapon to be used against the family, but even in your present state of disability; your arms and legs bound, you weren’t oblivious to the golden key a child would present an enemy. You understand why your husband was anxious. The two of you might as well be presenting death with a skeleton key to your combined estate.

“Why would you need to protect the family?” he grunted. “I’m not dead.”

“If that paternity test comes back positive, you might as well be,” your expression contorted bitterly, “we both might as well be.”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about this much,” Seto attempted to alleviate your restlessness. “It’s not good for our baby.”

“Do you think because I’ve lost my memories that I’m some foolish child?” you accused your husband, pointedly leaning forward against his desk. “You think I haven’t read the inheritance laws for Kaiba Corporation?”

He had not faltered from the stiff attitude he had settled into earlier, though his eyes narrowed at the remark.

“Your point?”

“My point is that a Kaiba is all anyone needs to control your company and your estate, and with the arrangements at the moment, by extension, mine. It doesn’t matter which Kaiba, so they will eliminate any Kaiba who poses an unnecessary threat; you, me, our unborn child depending on when they decide to execute their plot.”

“How do you know so much about the Ashikaga’s intentions?” he challenged.

“The simple power of deduction, though you confirmed my suspicions, just now. So they are trying to kill us.”

“I never said that,” he insisted.

“Your question just now, what other intentions? Are they intending to help me paint the nursery pink so I can help Atsuna paint hers blue? Don’t make me look like an idiot Seto.”

Seto would admit, his wife was sharper than he had given her credit for, especially in her current state of amnesia. He had arrived at the same conclusion, though he had progressed a step further, connecting recent events to the accident. He smelt foul play. He had no evidence, though that would soon change.

“Fine, you’re right but I have nothing further to tell you.”

“I see.”

“I’ll ask Ichinomiya and Oh for the favour,” you husband conceded with intense displeasure setting his eyes ablaze. “I’ll have a DNA sample sent their way.”

“I’ll do it.”

“I rather not have the man who proposed marriage to my wife while she was still underage interacting with her again,” he muttered.

“Soryu proposed marriage to me?”

“You seem way too excited by the prospect,” he scowled. “No, don’t hold your breath. The womanizer.”

“Eisuke?” you giggled. “It’s curious that he would, he looks a lot like you too.”

“Don’t insult me,” your husband grunted, standing. Moving for the first time in what felt to be hours. “Come on. I’m taking you to bed.”

...

“What would be a good comeback to someone who tells you that even lower-level duel monsters in duel monsters can evolve?”

“Who told you that?” he chortled, oddly fulfilled by how you nuzzled closer to him, invading his pillow, forcing him to share.

“Doesn’t matter, what would you say?”

“I need more context than that.”

“You know, I have no idea,” you murmured against his shirt, twisting the buttons absently between your thumb and forefinger.

He allowed a thoughtful silence before responding, “Tell them gods can’t be defeated by monsters, no matter how much they polymerize and evolve. Now, who told you that?”

“I read it in a book.”

“Liar,” he hissed playfully.

“Can we watch something before bed?”

Seto considered if he should resort to the cough medicine again tonight, having a date with the prosecutor’s office early the next morning; one of your pharmaceutical companies ensnared in some legal complication for a chemical compound used in manufacturing a line of skin care.

“Not tonight,” he denied, stroking your hair.

“Please?” you attempted to persuade, tangling yourself against him. Your fingers twisting in his hair, legs weaving through his, you danced your lips along his cupid’s bow, enticing him with empty promises you had no intention of fulfilling.

He flipped you over, still hopelessly entangled under the sheets, an animalistic growl escaping his throat, mounting you as if a beast over his prey.

“You better deliver if you’re going to start this,” your husband grunted, “and stop wearing these revealing nightgowns to bed if you don’t want some.”

Squealing as his fingers firmly pressed themselves into your skin, pinning your wrists, you were still oblivious to the shift in his tone, the drop in his register. Golden lamp light igniting his eyes in the dark room, desire of a thousand suns burned in his blue pools, though you could only see mere flickers of the flame; regarding him a cat toying with a plush mouse.

“You’re up,” you declared delighted, “let’s watch something.”

“Drop the act,” Seto hoarsely demanded, fingers hooking like claws into the fabric of your nightie, possessing every intention of tearing it off your skin. He was throbbing, an aching welling between his legs; he couldn’t remember the last time you had relieved him.

You giggled, ignorant of the ambience, naive to his expectations.

“Smiling?” he challenged, tipping your chin up to him, “you won’t be for much longer. Not when I’m done with you.”

His teeth dug into the supple skin of your neck, teasing your pulse, his hips rutting against yours with some unbroken rhythm. Then something went off; a switch or an awareness of the sort, flickering to life.

“I was just playing,” you bleated.

“This is why I always tell you that you lack foresight,” he remarked dismissively. “I need you tonight.”

“No,” you pressed your palms flat against his chest as you begged, your arms folded between your bodies, “please!”

He pulled away as your words foreshadowed tears, exasperation flooding his eyes as if a veil of ashen smoke. He wouldn’t speak a word as he separated from you. As he left the bed you grew concerned, calling after him, inquiring after his abrupt departure which lacked explanation.

“I need to use this energy somewhere,” was all he said, slipping in and out of the closet as if a spectre; always silent, leaving the bedroom.

...

Seto returned at an ungodly hour of the morning, doused in sweat, ripping his earphones out of his head and allowing them to fall freely from the sodden neck of his short sleeved shirt. Porcelain skin glistened with droplets of perspiration spilling down his muscular arms, dribbling in narrow streams between the valleys of his knuckles, eventually dripping past his fingertips. In the obscure light, you perceived a faint blush spilling over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Traversing the room, he threw open the French doors, the heavy curtains undrawn from the night before. The lighter drapes immediately took flight. He basked in the whirling breeze the navy dawn offered, his hands still clenched against the handles. The susurrus of foliage the wind stirred greeted you; the vibrant cacophony of creatures of the night rich in your ear.

He eventually walked away, abandoning his post as the greeter of the wind, disappearing into the bathroom. The French doors stayed open.

You dared to follow him, stalking after him into the bathroom, a discernible limp hindering your step. You forced yourself to watch as he stripped off his t-shirt, his track pants, then his briefs. He stepped into the shower.

You slid the ruffled straps of your nightgown past the curve of your shoulder, the fabric deflating as it pooled around your feet on the cold marble.

You carried the conviction that you didn’t possess the right, perhaps it was better dubbed the privilege, of denying him, not the man who trudged through hell barefoot for your sake.

He was turned away from you; the rush of water muffling the soft sound of the ball of your feet clinging onto cold tile as you walked.

Cold blue eyes fell over you as you opened the glass door, colder water pelting your skin like needles of ice. You could feel his eyes rest over your breasts, though you wouldn’t meet his gaze to confirm. Closing the door behind you, you stepped in to the confined space, fingers numbed from the pouring water slithering up his chest, past his pecs, draping over his shoulders.

You lifted on frozen toes, kissing him with blue lips. He was leaning down, his form arching forward. The warmth of his lips began to spread over yours, for one second...two...by the third he had forced you against the opposing glass wall. His knuckles wrapped around your head cracking dully against reinforced glass, shielding you. He pinned himself against you, desperately, ferociously.

It was difficult for Seto to restrain himself at the sight of his wife, your skin soft to his touch, like silken velvet under his roughly gliding fingertips. There was a flush of healthiness to your complexion after many weeks. He couldn’t avert his eyes from your full breasts, even as he kissed you, begging for his touch.

So he kneaded your bare breasts as he kissed you, swallowing your lips. Your arms were circling his neck. His lower half was grinding you.

You told yourself he deserved this, then he pulled away.

“Open your eyes,” he sighed, plastering his sodden fringe away from his forehead. It stubbornly fell forward, escaping his combing fingers. “You’re doing this again. Get out of here,” your husband demanded. “You don’t owe me anything, do you understand? You don’t owe your body, yourself, to anyone, for anything, not even me. That’s not the girl I married.” Adjusting the faucet, warm water soothed your prickled skin. He turned one shower head directly over you, long fingers threading your scalp, allowing the warm water to seep through your hair hanging like icicles past your shoulders.

Steam poured up, escaping the warm water, enclasping the glass, dressing it in a foggy haze.

“What are you -”

“You’ll catch a cold,” he husked, eyes attentively sifting through your hair matted with water.

You stood there for another moment; he stepped away.

“Now get out of here before I change my mind,” Seto snarled, pointedly slamming the glass door behind you.

Wrapping a towel around you, you stood transfixed. From your peripheral, you knew he refused to look at you. He just stood there; as did you. He drew in a breath, face contorting as his lips parted to speak, and you sprung to consciousness, scrambling to make yourself scarce.

...

He spun the hot water faucet to a complete close; ice pricks battered his skin. He felt need would burn him to charcoal. Slumping against the fogged glass, Seto moved his closed palm furiously against his arousal, husking your name under his breath. His fingertips burned, then they turned to charcoal, desire burning him black. A dancing flame curled against his core, before exploding, he groaned as he orgasmed; it wasn’t the same. This was a flicker, while you gave him firestorms.

...

He hesitated as he passed you by the bathroom mirror, a towel hanging low on his hip, you saw the hesitation mirrored in his eyes. You expected words, likely scathing; you had disappointed him twice, instead he marched with purposeful steps, leaving the bathroom.

When next you saw him he was dressed in a tailored, navy, pinstripe suit. Appearing behind you, he stripped the hairdryer from your hands. Drawing the upholstered stool from under the sink cabinet, he forced you with a firm hand on your shoulder to sit.

It was hardly five in the morning. You wondered what occasion called for him to be in a suit and tie. It was an idiotic thing to wonder.

Your fingers tightened around the towel tied low around your chest; hair curling past your shoulders in wet tendrils, the water gathering in your décolletage. Your exposed skin was still flushed from the warm shower.

“I’m not going to strip you,” he offered in an indignant growl. “You can relax.”

Warm air pouring over you, he began wordlessly to comb through your hair with his fingertips, eyes pouring over every strand of hair he turned, as if you were something precious, easily broken at the slightest flick of his fingers; you weren’t, you had survived, and you desperately wanted to believe that. Except it was him that had put the pieces back together each time you had shattered.

“I have something to tell you,” you told him, your words falling against deaf ears.

“What?” he turned off the dryer.

“I have something to confess,” you repeated, and with a swift nod of his head, he invited you to speak. “I...don’t remember how to bake...or cook. I must have learnt it after I... you know.”

“I see.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

“It’s nothing to concern yourself over.” He switched the hairdryer on again, warm air greeting you once more.

...

You had never seen him with glasses on and you thought they afforded him a rather regal appearance, especially against his pinstripe suit, surrounded by bookshelves which climbed the walls to the ceiling. Perhaps it was that you just didn’t remember him. They were thinly rimmed, catching the soft glint of his desk light.

You had never thought to describe your husband as princely; the closest literary character your memory evoked being Hades, though in that moment, princely, vexingly befit him. Though in the defence of your unreasonable infatuation, he still appeared as if he would erupt into hellfire at any moment.

Being in your nightgown and robe, you felt severely underdressed in his presence.

“I brought you breakfast,” you offered, setting down a silver tray containing a French omelette, croissants spread heavily with chocolate and fruit. There was a pitcher of orange juice and a mug of coffee besides the plate.

“You brought this up yourself?” he inquired, eyes lifting from the imposing array of paperwork spread chaotically without reason over the heavy oak desk. You wouldn’t recognize the pharmaceutical corporation’s emblem on their headers.

The curtains behind him were still drawn closed, the room bathed poorly in golden lamp light.

“I did.”

“Are you able to walk on your own now?” The physical therapists that had been residing at the mansion had left a few days prior.

“I still need crutches sometimes, usually by the end of the day,” you elucidated, tipping the crystal pitcher into the empty glass.

“I see.”

You couldn’t help but feel you had disappointed him with that answer.

“Eat something before you leave for work.”

“You want me to have breakfast at six in the morning?”

“I assumed you’d be going to work soon.”

“I will be,” he nodded.

“Then when were you hoping to have breakfast? At lunch? Or after coming back home?”

You couldn’t be sure from where such ownership and authority over his well-being had materialized.

He chuckled, seemingly satisfied with your outburst, “And the nagging returns.” He took a bite out of the croissant. “That’s certainly a relief.”

You stood awkwardly before assembling cautiously your next question emboldened by his contentment over your previous assertion, “You should get some sleep before work. You didn’t sleep at all last night.”

“You’re concerning yourself uselessly,” he spurned your concern. “I do this all time.”

“All the more reason for you to get some sleep. You’ll have a stroke before you’re thirty.”

“Fine,” he abruptly stood, walking around his desk, having abandoned his papers and breakfast.

Snatching you by the hand, he began to stalk out of his study.

“Wait,” you protested, “you barely touched your - ”

“It tastes like absolute crap. You obviously didn’t make it. Make me something when I wake up.”

“I told you I don’t know how to cook,” you reminded, being tugged as if you were his rag doll down the corridor.

“Make me toast then, plain toast, I’m sure you can manage that.”

He almost trampled a number of maids, changing the arrangements of flowers in the China vases lining the hallway in preparation for the morning, in his haste. Their heads dropped to practiced bows in the presence of the both of you, though the resentment was plain in their countenance at the sight of their master hand in hand with his wife. It obviously didn’t agree with their little fantasies, a cruel awakening of sorts at the break of dawn.

...

“Sit down,” Seto commanded, leading you to the bed. You obeyed, your legs over the edge of the bed.

The cats were sleeping on his pillows again. He stopped you as you attempted to evict the sleeping kitties.

“I won’t be needing those,” he stoically declared, first sitting beside you. Then without warning, he laid down, his head resting on your thighs. Your eyes grew, stiffening at the motion.

The gesture felt more intimate than sex somehow.

“Don’t get any ideas,” your husband warned, holding his phone before you after setting his alarm, then pointedly slipping it into the inner- breast pocket of his jacket. “I’m only laying down for twenty minutes.”

“It would be more comfortable for you to sleep in something else.”

“Don’t try me,” Seto growled, “you’re better at pickpocketing than you think.”

You couldn’t hope to know what he had meant, oblivious to what he was referring to.

Awkwardly folding his arms, his long legs cramped against the foot of the bed, and fully dressed in his suit, he nestled his head against your lap.

You weren’t sure if he was emulating something he had seen, or if it was an idea of his own design.

All you could be certain of was that if he could find a moment of solace in your silent companionship, you would offer up your entire world, to afford him that peace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts about here this relationship is at :) and especially if where the reader is going with her thoughts, that is, if her thought pattern is followable. If you think she’s doing it all out of obligation or if she really is beginning to love him again.


	38. Austen’s Heroine Vs. Tolstoy’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just some fluff before we start getting into the plot. Also, Kaoru returns, who’s happy to have him back? Also, PandaMuse, if you see this, are you okay?
> 
> I’m trying not to write devastating chapters with it being finals. Enjoy :)

Tranquility encompassed the bedroom; like quiet wind rippling a still lake, the pouring breeze animated the white curtains, before flooding the room with its silence. That familiar smell of magnolia arrived at your doorstep, ending the reign of night, though beyond it, the morning remained grey and calm.

You brushed the back of your fingertips against his fawn, velvet hair which fell untamed, obscuring his closed eyes, concealing what little the creases in his expression exposed to you.

It was torture to him, your insincere touch. To need someone was a great deal more precarious than simply wanting them, Seto knew that better than anyone. His universe was holding him in her arms, but he was just one of the many stars which baffled you, and he wasn’t in the centre, he was sure. He had been, once, but he had been foolish then.

  
A husband, you mused, in some ways he felt more a responsibility than having a child, and all the while it had been him playing your keeper. It was the obligation of sharing yourself with another human being which felt arduous. You liked transience, and this was permanent.

Still, he felt safe, like an impenetrable fortress.

You couldn’t image he was comfortable, twisting his long limbs as if accommodating a sardine can. Leaning forward, you attempted to loosen his tie, perhaps even undo the first couple of his buttons. Instead blue orbs presented themselves to you, fingers apprehending your meddling hand.

“Don’t,” he sternly reprimanded, before swiftly allowing his lids to fall shut once again.

He didn’t speak following that; neither did you. He hadn’t disputed your fingers dishevelling his hair.

You couldn’t hope to keep time with wind, but so far, two great gusts of wind had disturbed the sleeping oaks. Each time you had stiffened, anxious the stirring leaves would rouse your sleeping husband; he had finally found sleep. You could be sure from how his rigid inhalations had eased into to deep, even breaths and slightly parted lips.

Princely and angelic, indeed the morning was allowing you to witness many facets of him which contradicted his published character. Then again, your flagrant display this morning had hardly agreed with yours. You couldn’t be sure why as a child you had done Hades the disservice of restricting him into an archetype; after all, he loved and was loyal to his wife.

A timid knock echoed from the door, and your heart stuttered. Your hand reflexively covered his ears, hoping he could sleep, if at least a moment longer. Misunderstanding your silence, the knock came again, and this time with a small voice, you answered.

“What is it?”

“I have a parcel for you ma’am,” a tinny voice informed.

You bade them in. The door was unlocked.

You demanded her silence with a forefinger raised against your lips. She tread with cautious footsteps, holding a garment bag.

Inside the clear bag of the maid, hung a school uniform; an oversized navy blazer with a golden emblem embroidered on to the breast pocket, a white blouse loosely adorned around the neck with a red bow, a loose, khaki wool vest, also embroidered with the insignia, and a muddy-moss toned tartan skirt.

You could tell the position you had greeted with had been startling to the young girl. Certainly, it was not a common occurrence for one to happen upon Seto Kaiba contorted as if he were a pretzel, splayed over a woman’s lap, even if he happened to be the husband to that woman.

“Where would you like me to leave this?” the blushing maid inquired, hesitating, awkwardly shifting her weight.

Upon close inspection, as she neared you, you noticed the name tag engraved with your character’s name.

“Is that for the drama?”

She nodded.

“Leave it over that chair.”

“Yes ma’am.”

You called her back as she motioned to leave, “Does the mansion have a toaster?” What a strange thing to ask, you scorned yourself. “You know, for making toast - plain toast.”

She repeated her previous response, clearly befuddled by the curious inquiry.

Your husband employs a personal pastry chef, you ridiculed your mental lapse, why would he not own a toaster? You found comfort reminding yourself that there were definitely worse places your neurons could have misfired.

...

You wondered why you bothered keeping time with clocks, analogue or digital, when your husband had evolved eons ahead. You were living in the twenty-first century, while he was living in the twenty-third, or something beyond.

Indicolite eyes flickered to life a minute before his alarm; he retrieved his phone from his suit jacket, silencing the awaiting ringing.

“Did you sleep well?” you murmured, offering a smile as you shifted through the defiantly cascading fringe, searching for his eyes. Yours poured past your shoulders, tickling his skin.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he pleaded, rasping in his sleepy haze.

“Like what?” you inquired, bewildered.

“Like you need me.”

“I do need you,” you contested, and he shook his head.

“Not like that.”

With those words he pulled himself to sit, his warmth leaving your legs. You crept towards him, inching along the bed’s edge. He glanced over at your surreptitious movement, a quizzical brow elevated above his misbelieving eyes. Your fingers stole past his back, drawing yourself to hold him.

Make belief wasn’t the worst scenario, Seto cynically comforted himself; you were acting out all the motions of love, he just had to believe it.

“Don’t leave me,” you told him, voicing the thoughts ravaging his head, “I don’t want to be left alone while you’re at work today.”

“My office isn’t very comfortable.”

“Will you be there?”

“When I don’t have somewhere else to be,” he cryptically returned.

“Take me,” you urged.

He chuckled wryly at the innuendo, before scowling at his own immaturity. He agreed with a dull hum.

He inquired after the costume draped over the arm chair, and you bounded towards it without explanation, before disappearing into the closet. He sauntered after you, to find you dressed in something he considered peculiar.

“Nice outfit,” he ridiculed, a smirk dancing. “What the hell are you supposed to be?”

“It’s my uniform,” you grunted, battling the black socks which insisted on rolling down past your knee, “for my character.”

“Right,” Seto drawled. “Is it supposed to be three sizes too big? Or are you compensating for the baby bump?”

You released an indignant growl, it was the aesthetic.

He wondered if it was inappropriate to be attracted to his wife while she was dressed like this.

“On a serious note,” you probed, holding out your arms, “what do you think?”

“I think I can’t wait for you to be done with this role,” he groused.

You remained as you were for a few more moments, inviting him to hug you.

“Oh for god’s sake,” you cried out, “hold me Seto, I’m asking for you to hug me.”

Stepping forward he complied, practically pouring over you to accommodate the height difference.

“You give terrible hugs,” you falsely criticized, hoping to inspire a rise out of him.

“No,” your six-foot one husband disputed calmly, “you’re just unfortunately, vertically challenged.”

“You smell good,” you remarked, nuzzling closer.

“You’re like one of your cats,” he teased, planting a kiss over your head.

...

You emerged from the closet to find your husband wrestling Suki over a rose.

“You can’t eat that you stupid hairball,” he was cursing, grappling the thorny stalk from between the kitten’s fangs. Seto called your name, severe aggravation plaguing his tone, “Your mangy weasel is trying to kill itself.” You couldn’t help but titter, your first instinct to take a photo. Unamused by this he scolded, “Stop being a millennial. It’s going to hurt itself.”

Intervening, you liberated the chewed stem, lifting away. Overcome with frustration, the kitten sunk her teeth against Seto’s leg, eliciting a sharp hiss, followed by the feline being torn away, and lifted by the scruff of her neck.

“Please don’t kill her,” you winced, seeing death whirling in his eyes.

“You’re not wearing that to my office,” he returned, forgetting the cat over the seat cushion of an arm chair.

You peered down at your black, midriff revealing, bondage inspire bralette, and houndstooth culottes over black, heeled boots pouting.

“I’m wearing this,” you attempted to negotiate, holding up a blush pink blazer.

“Out of the question,” he barked. You remained impassive. He knew exactly what you were doing. “Are you retaliating?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t play games with me,” he grit his teeth. “My comment earlier about the...Never mind.”

So you and your husband compromised.

“You’re being petty,” he condemned as you descended the stairs, your outfit unchanged.

...

He took a left down a corridor you had memorized required a right to lead you towards the garage.

“Is there a shortcut to the garage?”

“No.”

“Seto - you cant just pull people like their rag dolls.”

“Toast,” he tersely reminded, “plain toast, you haven’t made me breakfast.”

...

You had your breakfast ordered to his desk, courtesy of Yukari and her bad attitude.

According to your husband, a burger and French fries weren’t real food, but to your defence, neither was half-burnt toast.

“Tell your baby to ask for healthier alternatives,” you had challenged.

“I’m going to have a child exactly like its mother,” Seto had grumbled, the sarcastic remark coupled with a suppressed groan.

By lunch you had been left alone in his office for over five hours, and by early one, your curious spirit had gotten the best of you.

Wandering the metal sheathed hallways of your husband’s building, you imagined if a building could embody a human, this is what you would be looking at; disposition an eccentric concoction of stoic and callous as cold as steel, while boisterously standing above everyone else, a hundred thousand stories off the ground; complete overkill. Then again, you reconsidered, your palm against the metal wall, he did warm to your touch.

By the number of employees you had caught off guard and surrendered to a ninety degree bow with your mere presence, you should have retreated back to your husband’s office, or at the very least, stopped acting mental, hugging walls and such, you wryly noted as another pair offered their respects. You were quick to dismiss them.

You wouldn’t admit to yourself that you were hopelessly lost.

Edging along the steel wall, when you had subdued your pride enough to ask for directions, the stream of loafing employees had dried up. You would skydive out a window before you dialled your husband and confessed your predicament, though even that, you needed to provide some form of sensible descriptors for him to find you, and you didn’t think steel corridor and glass wall provided adequate instruction. He ought to erect a statue of himself around here, you snickered mentally, each with a different trench coat - from the extensive collection you had witnessed hanging in the closet - to distinguish the hallways by. No need, another thought rung, he probably had a microchip implanted in your mind and could find you at will.

“Who has a microchip implanted in your head?” a boyish voice was curious behind you.

You turned, interest piqued for a number of reasons, though primarily at being addressed by your maiden name; no one had called you anything besides Mrs. Kaiba since you had woken up.

“I didn’t read your mind,” the polished young man chuckled, “you were thinking out loud.” At your stunned silence he continued, “I swear, I couldn’t have, I don’t have a chip installed in your brain. Who are we talking about?”

Kaoru, your brain raced for a tangible thought beyond his first name. Stealing a glance at your phone, Hidehira, it read, board director of marketing. That was about all you had the opportunity to peek at, before you fell under the scrutiny of his inquisitive dark eyes, like ink and onyx, calling on you to speak.

“Mr. Hidehira,” you nervously croaked, and he frowned, pouted almost. He tucked a stray tendril of hair behind your ear.

“I thought we were beyond that,” he husked, your breath knotting deep in your lungs.

His fringe feathered over his forehead, dishevelled by design, late afternoon sunlight set his skin aglow like warm honey, his lip wrinkling the corner of his mouth into a dimple as it stretched. Yours curled and uncurled, before curling ever so slightly again, as if a languid feline’s tail, enticed and curious, all in under three seconds.

“Kaoru,” you stuttered, unfamiliar with what dynamic was expected of you.

“I’m uh - sorry about your loss,” he faltered, gaze sweeping the ground.

You understood he was referring to the baby, and you decided it was safer to not correct him.

He was no where as beautiful as your husband, granted, indicolite and sapphire was a great deal more striking than onyx and ink. That being said however, Kaoru was also much less stately, less imposing, and if you had a type, it wasn’t Seto.

You weren’t looking for trouble.

“I rather not talk about it,” you stated.

“Of course,” he returned, a somber note to his words, though he was quick to alleviate the mood. “Have you had lunch?”

“Not yet.”

“Would you like to - I can have lunch ordered from Four Seasons for the both of us - or whenever it is that you like.”

“I think I’ll wait for my husband.”

“Tea in my office then.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“A Japanese cheesecake cafe opened nearby, their cakes are really good,” he elaborated what you received as an invitation.

“This is Japan,” you inquired bluntly, understanding why a Japanese cheesecake cafe would cause so much excitement in London or Vancouver, “how is a Japanese cheesecake place so interesting?”

He guffawed, seemingly exhilarated by your simply question.

“Wouldn’t you like to find out?” He linked his arm through yours, a grin lifting his cheeks.

“I really shouldn’t,” you protested; not that your tone held any conviction.

Kaoru flashed a smile, tugging you forward, “I think you’ll really like their passion fruit mousse cake, it’s been so long since we last saw each other,” he insisted. He was bold without being assertive, and you oddly found yourself at ease.

You were too young and immature to comprehend that burdened by the responsibility of your life and managing your personal as well as corporate affairs, your husband did not possess the liberty to be so nonchalant, while this director only needed to concern himself with wooing you over to him, affording him the leisure of being so affable and carefree.

Crossing the glass encased hallway soaked in sunlight, he held his hand over your eyes, shielding you from the rays raining through the wall.

“I don’t want your perfect skin blemishing,” he offered.

“We certainly wouldn’t want that,” an abrasive voice reached you from the opposite end of the corridor, a dark figure emerging from the shadows.

Transfixed by mild horror, your stomach churned as your husband stepped out, a grim scowl darkening his features.

You hadn’t committed a crime, you justified, but was being held by another man not redeemable in Seto’s eyes?

He stalked forward, snatching you away from the handsome stranger, sapphire blue eyes emulating burning embers as they reflected the afternoon sun.

He wouldn’t spare another word of acknowledgment towards the young director as he whisked you away.

...

“I told you to stay put in my office, what part of stay put was too difficult for you to comprehend? And where did you find him?” Seto thundered as you sat in his car, tongue contorting sourly at Kaoru’s mention.

“I’m sorry.”

“Do you know how many people I employed combing through every surveillance camera to find you? I had the entire secretariat and security team - your phone serves no purpose left behind in my office.”

It was then you felt your blazer pocket to find it empty. He tossed the device over your lap.

“I assumed you had microchipped my brain,” your slipped, habit overriding survival instinct.

“Do you find this funny?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I never want you in his company again, do you understand me?”

You nodded, eyes cast over your lap.

Running his hand over his face, before threading his finger through his hair, he sighed, “Put on your seatbelt, we’re going home.”

“It’s half past one.”

“What’s your point?” he inquired, spinning the steering wheel against the palm of his right hand, reversing the wine red Maserati at a careless speed.

“Don’t you have work?”

“That’s a useless question,” Seto frowned, “I always have work”

...

  
So then why you wondered, was he changing into his home clothes in early afternoon? From his silver briefcase he produced a pine coloured, hardcover book, its spine bound by worn velvet, and title etched over the spine and cover in gold foil, ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ it read, the engraving of two lovers meeting on a bridge below it, followed by the author’s name.

Slipping into his side of the bed, he ordered you join him. Lunch hadn’t particularly agreed with you, and you weren’t in the mood to play along; regardless you obeyed.

“What are we doing?” you questioned, his arm weighing heavily over your shoulders, drawing you into his chest.

Bucket list number twelve, though you wouldn’t remember, he scowled.

  
“You like this book as far as I’m concerned,” he informed, flipping to find the first page.

“I still don’t get what you’re doing with it,” you bluntly admitted.

“Reading it, obviously.”

“Pride and prejudice? Have you read it before?” you asked.

“To you,” he growled, displeased at having to elaborate, “out loud, to you, because you’re a simple minded child who likes these things.”

“I’m a what?”

“I misspoke,” he immediately corrected himself, narrowing his eyes over the text.

“No,” you contested, “that’s about all I am these days.”

“No,” your husband disagreed, tone fuelled by aggravation, “you’re not well, but that doesn’t mean you’re incapable.”

“It’s fine then,” you murmured, “if you feel that way.”

“I do,” Seto insisted, beginning to read. “It is a truth universally acknowledged,” he gruffly read, “that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” His sentence came to a conclusion, accompanied by an untamed cackle. “Yes,” he rolled his eyes taunting, “we are all looking for wives.”

“You’re married,” you reminded him chuckling, “this was written in the regency period, and just a few months ago, you were looking for a wife.”

“I wasn’t on the market shopping for a random woman, I was trying to make you my wife,” he remarked, annoyed by your commentary, “there’s a difference.”

“Sure, my love.”

Brooding, he continued eloquently, “However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.” He paused, averting his eyes from the page to direct them over you, a smile gracing you lips as you waited patiently for him to read on, enraptured by his voice. He found a smile defiantly fighting for control over his own lips, one he subdued with great difficulty, biting into his lower lip. “Are you happy?” he found himself asking, surprising even himself.

“Very,” you returned, acutely aware of what a privilege this was to experience.

He read on, occasionally pausing to leave snide commentaries on certain dialogues, characters or implications. As he reached the third chapter, he was interrupted by your orange tabby, demanding affection, and attempting to convert the book into her personal napping spot.

“Aw, kitty,” you cooed, cradling her in your palm and nuzzling your nose against hers, “why are you so naughty? How did you get up here again?”

Seto found himself growing irrationally jealous of a cat. His earlier irritation over your intimate interaction - or at least what he deemed such - with his board director he had regarded justifiable, but being jealous of a four pawed hairball he considered well beneath him. So it only piqued him even more when he could not restrain himself.

“You’re calling your cat kitty?” he inquired with ridicule.

“No, I just haven’t named her yet. I named Suki after you, so maybe I should name her after Mokuba, since he helped pick her out at the shelter.”

“You named that coughed up ball of hair after me?”

“Yeah, Suki,” you said, “it means beloved.”

Suddenly he felt rather ashamed - which was not an emotion he often felt, if ever - for having doubted your sincerity.

“I thought you went by the first letter,” he admitted in a husk, continuing to be annoyed by the kitten you were swinging around.

“Maybe Mochi, or Mocha?” you pursued your lips in thought. “Or Momo. Would be funny if I named her by your brother’s actually name.”

“Ryu,” Seto declared long after you were convinced he had reserved himself to silence. “It means dragon,” he elucidated.

“How does that relate to your brother?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Isn’t that a boy’s name?”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Ryu it is,” you mumbled, deciding you liked the name.

Ryu was soon after evicted from the bed, and your husband resumed his reading.

You never could have fathomed that such a stormy register could be tuned to sound like aeriform rain kissing the English hillside; falling lithely in sheets over your ears, animating the story and its characters, all the while, his voice had not changed at all, only your perception of him.

He was like a poem you had heard as a child, and forgotten.

...

Seto peered down to find you dozing off against his chest, your hair tumbled over your face in a tousled mess, as if a cascading avalanche, spilling into his lap. He draped it over your ear, stealing a glance as you slept. You were drooling again. He sighed, setting the book and his glasses over the nightstand, wiping against the corner of your lip with his thumb.

The orange kitten clambered the sheets up to his lap, and decided to settle there, soon followed by Suki. He was severely irritated, and while he wouldn’t chase away the persistent fur balls, concerned the slightest movement would rouse you, he had contemplated pitching the two felines across the room many times over in his mind.

Eventually he too succumbed to the calls of sleep, head hung limply over yours, his arm protectively wrapped around your hunched back.

...

It was early evening when you woke up, huddled against your husband’s chest with your two cats curled on his lap, under a veil of copper sunlight. Waning shadows stretched across the room burning orange and marigold, fading with the sun.

An arm reached from above you, swiftly banishing the cats from the bed.

“Are you awake?”

“Yes,” you replied, stretching your limbs without lifting them.

“You even stretch like a cat,” Seto remarked. “Are you hungry?”

You mumbled yes.

“What do you want?”

“I’m craving ice-cream.”

“You’re always craving ice cream,” his tone was dry. “Is there a flavour?”

“Strawberry cheesecake.”

He tensed; that was last flavour he recalled you eating before the accident, many nights ago on the roof of his penthouse.

“Well we don’t have that here at the mansion,” he informed.

Disappointed you conceded, “Oh.”

Leaving the bed, his hair dishevelled, he disappeared into the closet without explanation.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he chided, returning. “Let’s go pick one up at the grocery store.”

“Pick one up?”

“Or more,” he corrected himself, misunderstanding where you had placed the emphasis.

“Is that not what you have staff for?” you were curious to know.

“Would you rather have them pick some up?”

His expression creased, annoyed by your convoluted interrogation of the task he had memorized as bucket list number three.

“No,” you told him, having considered your options. “A date to the supermarket sounds fun.”

“It’s not a date,” he clenched his jaw.

“You’re my husband, call it whatever you want it be.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think :)
> 
> Uniform: https://pin.it/lekh4g7ugdyoht


	39. Bets & Buttercream Blossoms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone, I’m running slightly behind with travelling and the holidays but I do still love hearing from you so get back to me! 
> 
> Quick note: I don’t follow the Japanese entertainment industry or know any of the idols/ actors but if you want an idea of what Kaoru looks like, look up Soto Fukushi, or at least I think that’s how his name goes.  
>  
> 
> I’ve linked quite literally everything at the end so enjoy that. To all of you who hated that necklace he bought her, tell me what you think of how it was paired. Also! Quick note that while her former self is used to ostentatious diamonds, the younger self hasn’t gotten into all of it yet, which should explain her discomfort.

A silver trident fleetingly marked the evening sky, splitting it in two, a sheet of grey rain sweeping the front garden, meeting you half way down the driveway. The sheets back in bed grew to be more inviting.

Being English, you had a certain tolerance for the rain, but even you couldn’t deny it was bloody miserable out there.

You wouldn’t say anything, and your husband defied the pelting needles assaulting the hood of the slate grey Porsche, pushing forward. At the wrought iron gates, the guards warned you of an impending summer storm system destined for the city, and Seto inquired with familiar discontentment how desperately you were craving ice cream.

“I rather be in bed,” you confessed, and he didn’t need any more persuasion to abandon the quest to the grocery store.

He hadn’t appeared particularly pleased with the endeavour to begin with.

...

You spoke in hushed tones.

“Whispering doesn’t distract me any less,” his gaze veered away from the darkened screen decorated with endless lines of neon. The comforter entangling you was a mess under his outstretched legs. Cursing under his breath he assaulted the backspace key with his forefinger repeatedly.

He had on no shirt, and yet there was a warmth radiating from his bare skin. It was cold in the room, the air conditioner whirring silently.

“Sorry.”

“No, what did you say?”

White fire tore the Stygian sky, burning in transience, engraving the night with trails drawn from ore and opal. White lightening, you observed in the window beyond your husband, with such fiery grace it danced.

“Close the curtains if it bothers you,” Seto advised, sparing another glance.

“It doesn’t.” It didn’t because he was there.

He grunted as if in acknowledgement.

“White lightening is really... so beautiful,” you murmured, spellbound.

Your husband’s expression wrinkled unexpectedly, growing somber, fingers freezing over the keys, “Turns out I did marry the right woman.”

“You were doubting it?”

“Not exactly,” he chortled, rolling over to hover over you, laptop displaced over the edge of the sheets. “Is it...” he taunted, cocking his head, “that beautiful?”

“You’re mocking me,” you accused.

“I am,” he had no reason to deny.

His lips ghosted over yours; you met him with words.

“What did you hope to achieve through this marriage?”

He faltered, “What?”

“I don’t - I don’t understand, were you in love with me or did you just need a trophy?”

“I married you because I wanted you,” he returned.

“Like a doll on a shelf, you wanted a play thing.”

He had rehearsed this conversation with a former version of you, and lost each time.

“No,” he harshly intercepted, “no, not like that. Why are you suddenly -”

“I don’t know what I was thinking getting into this,” you confessed. “and I can’t speak for her. But I value financial stability, or rather financial independence above love and romance and whatever other chemicals you can produce in a lab.” Seto’s expression grew ominous. “Because surviving was more important than being adored.” He could relate to those words. “So when I first woke up to you, my thought process was this, that you could provide for me, provide me that financial stability. My reasons for staying were all selfish, materialistic ones. I didn’t once think of you. You also handled all of my finances, and it scared me to upset you then.”

“I would never take what’s yours away from you,” he husked, appraising you with hardened eyes.

“But you’ve saved my life and for all your services I thought - ”

“You thought you needed to stay to pay for my services.”

“Yes,” you admitted.

“I see.” You swallowed thickly where his words stopped. “And do you think you’re done...paying for those services?”

“What?”

“Spare me the bullshit if you’re going to ask me for a divorce,” he growled.

“I don’t think I can monetize you saving my life, so I don’t think I’ll ever be done. I wasn’t going to ask for that but why would you want to keep someone so selfish around?”

“Are you interested in him?” He hung his head.

“Who?”

“Hidehira!” he bellowed. “You damn well know who I meant!”

“I’m yours, how could I possibly -”

“Answer the damn question,” he demanded, laughing cynically. “Do you find him attractive?”

“Yes.”

You couldn’t hope to lie under that crushing gaze.

“I see. And does he know you’re carrying my child?”

“Does it matter, I see no - ”

“It fucking matters if you’re thinking of leaving me for him.”

Those words earned him your right palm against his left cheek. It was reflex, and you felt no fear, no guilt at having done it. It still pained you however to see his flesh redden.

Your outrage at the suggestion proved your innocence in his eyes.

“I was going to tell you that I was starting to fall in love with you, you absolute, self-obsessed, egotistical jackass!” you screamed back at him before he could spare any thought. “And not for the jewellery you buy me or all the roses in the world. For you, you as a person.”

The oddly strung, unorthodox, half-way to a confession stumped him.

“You...love me?”

A chill burned below his skin.

“I said I’m starting to.”

He collapsed over you at the confirmation, lips pinned on yours.

“Seto, the baby,” you squealed between mushed lips, and he raised himself on his forearms, relieving you of his weight, though his lips continued to devour you. “How could you,” you begged when the opportunity presented itself where his tongue wasn’t gagging you, “for a moment...think that I was cheating on you? ...I only saw him today, and as attractive as he is...”

“Don’t call that imbecile attractive,” he demanded, “though I will admit I misspoke.”

“I only accept apologies in the form of Valentinos and Louboutins,” you teased, your teeth meeting his lips as you couldn’t contain your smile the next he claimed them.

...

Somehow with your confession you had succeeded in luring your husband to bed at ten twenty seven, later that night; the age old concoction of dopamine, seratonin and oxytocin proving to be more potent than the marvels of tech.

He kissed your ear, leaning over you; you could feel his chest rising and falling deeply against your back. You turned to face him, lips pressed between your teeth, a sincere effort to hold your lips from stretching into a foolish grin, though your scarlet cheeks would betray you.

“I need to ask you for something.”

“Anything,” he murmured, pressing your face into his neck, his Adam’s apple against your nose.

He was quite possibly one of the only men in the world who meant ‘anything,’ literally, because he could quite well accomplish ‘anything’ you asked of him, in its most literal sense. The parameters of this definition didn’t stop short of plucking the stars literally out of the sky.

“I want to date you,” you mumbled, apprehensive of how the request would be received, despite him having declared he was prepared to indulge anything, “get to know you.”

Seto chortled, “What did you think we did all afternoon?”

That was a date?

“Though I can’t imagine why you keep asking me out,” he husked, “I’m already yours.”

“Keep asking you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re already mine?”

“Yes.”

...

  
Cakes. Cakes were buttercream coated nightmares, macarons their evil cousins with an eyepatch.

Men did stupid things for love, and not to be outdone, women apparently did stupider, even for the shadows of it.

You had whisked egg whites by hand until your wrist was beginning to come unscrewed from your arm, this morning, all the days leading up to this morning, and secretly, at odd hours of the night when Seto was occupied in his study, and yours was still falling flat.

“Another batch bites the dust,” you cursed, disposing the sloppy, white, poorly formed froth into the garbage, the chrome mixing bowl in tow. The fleet of servants stood suspended in motion at the ringing of the metal like clashing cymbals, demanding for silence through the frantic kitchen.

“I think it looked fine Mrs. Kaiba,” the pastry chef sought to appease you, his mediocrity stirring only more aggravated ire.

“Yes, if you want them to be mediocre. Do you expect mediocre macarons served at my husband’s gala? Is that how you do your job?”

The wrathful question begged no answer; instead he flinched, bowing in apology.

By the seventh batch, soft, white peaks rose up to meet your whisk.

Mid-afternoon you were convinced you would never be able to hold your fingers any other way; the joints seemingly, permanently contorted to accommodate a piping bag of buttercream.

“All my years growing up,” you griped to a random maid lathering the cake with a crumb coating, while spinning a ranunculus onto parchment paper atop a piping needle between your fingers, “did I imagine myself a housewife.” She wouldn’t say anything, merely acknowledging your words with a polite nod of her head. “Not to Seto anyway. You know, I have a job, a corporation to run,” you continued, “the same job as him essentially so I ask myself what I’m doing here.” Irritated the way a drowsy toddler was, your husband not presently available to mollify you, you glared at her. “Is there a clause in your employment contract which tells you that you can’t speak to me or?”

“No madam.”

“Oh good, so Ursula did give you back your voice.”

Another buttercream ranunculus joined the army of pastel posies, sweet peas and ranunculi laid out over the marbled counter.

...

Seto returned home to an empty bedroom. There was a grey drizzle chilling the garden, so he didn’t think it likely you would be there, under the writhing oaks.

Directed by the maids, he strode into the kitchen; the centre island a profusion of layered cakes, brilliantly iced with buttercream blossoms, a myriad of floral inspired cupcakes, pyramids of macarons crowned with raspberries, candied rose petals, and peaches, wilting to shame the rosebuds adorning the glass towers. At the foot of the towering creations were a collection of Australian inspired ice cream tarts, garnished with sliced papayas, figs, seeds of passion fruit and frozen grapes, and a pineapple and passion fruit roulade sprinkled heavily with violet and yellow posies.

He found his wife passed out alone on the floor besides the oven, a single mitten on your right hand. He made a note to replace his household staff for the neglect, the way he had removed the pastry chef from his post.

Kneeling beside you he gently shook you, “The guests are coming in half an hour,” he said, attempting to contain his irritation at how poorly you managed your health. “The maids tell me you haven’t eaten all day, making all of this.”

Rousing, you spoke hazily, “I didn’t make all of it, I only made the batters and mixes and did the piping.”

“That is all of it,” he maintained.

“The cookies!” you exclaimed animatedly all of a sudden, startling your husband.

“What?”

“You said there would be kids, so I baked pistachio and blood orange shortbread cookies,” you explained, scrambling to your feet, turning off the oven.

“You made all this yourself?” Seto spoke, tinged with disbelief, embracing you from behind. “I thought you said you couldn’t remember.”

“Muscle memory is a crazy thing it turns out,” you mumbled, salvaging the heart-shaped, sandy shortbread from the oven. “There’s home made vanilla-almond ice cream with cherries and pistachios in the fridge,” you told him, “it’s in a metal tub, so help yourself to some before if you’re hungry.”

“You hardly have the leisure to concern yourself on whether I’ve eaten,” he scolded. “I don’t like how you’re governing your health. When I asked you to make dessert, I had meant for you to bake a cake, not prepare for the world’s baking championship. Though in hindsight I suppose I should have expected no less of you.”

You attempted to shrug him off as you tapped the air bubbles out of your piping bag, to no avail of the former.

“You have our child to think of,” he reminded you severely at your nonchalance, “an expecting woman shouldn’t exhaust herself without eating proper - ”

“Have I not pleased you?” you inquired, spinning to face him without warning, and inadvertently smearing frothy, white icing on his suit jacket. Running your thumb along the edge of his lapel, you brought your fingers to your lips, white frosting coating the corner of your mouth; you had done it intentionally.

Understanding your cue, he smirked, stalling for a moment to draw pleasure from how you writhe, anticipating him. Then he leaned forward, lapping his tongue along the outline of your lip, before sucking in your bottom.

“If you wanted _that_ so much, you should have just asked,” he taunted.

You were first to withdraw your gaze blushing, overwhelmed by the incomprehensible depth of his orbs. It didn’t matter that you had lost, for you had won the war; your ploy to distract his attention from his lecture to you having succeeded.

“Get dressed and do that after,” he ordered as you began to pour over your tray of shortbread, “if you have time. If not, I’ll have a chef take care of it. It’s almost six.”

Obeying, you urged him to carry you back to the bedroom, and as with everything else, he indulged your childish request.

...

There was a bath running for you when you entered, steam rising in frond-like wisps. Undressing, you stepped in; Seto opting for a shower.

“If you wanted to spend two hours in there you shouldn’t have napped in the kitchen,” Seto berated as he shaved.

Grudgingly you stumbled out, joining him by the sink in a loosely wrapped towel.

“You know,” you purred, turning him to face you. As he did your towel accidentally pooled by your feet, and your frisky fingers fumbled with the edge of his. “I’ve been an awfully good girl today.”

“And?” he returned your tone.

“I’m just saying,” you flirted, pulling your wet skin embellished with water droplets against his, snaking your arms around your husband’s neck.

His hands found your waist.

“Good girls don’t say things like that,” he muttered, teasing you with only his breath kissing your lips.

You could feel him harden against you, so you couldn’t help but commend the man’s vexing restraint as he released you, ordering you to get dressed.

Supple midnight blue silk cascaded your body. The sleeves were short and rolled at the ends, the silk rising up around the neck, before moulding to fit the contours of your body. A single slit rose up between your thighs, the skirt flaring in a flurry as you walked. A shield of magnolias adorned your waist, gilded in silver and gold, forming a metallic, under-bust corset.

Your cheeks dusted rose gold, your lips were a brilliant coral. Your hair he had insisted the artist style into a partial bun, the rest of your hair tumbling in subtle waves over your back, leaving loose tendrils to blow freely about your face.

“You look ravishing,” Seto husked from behind you in your ear, as he placed the dramatic diamond necklace he had bought you for the occasion over your concealed chest, the imposing sapphire weighing heavily. You had been right in assuming the bangle would prevent you from lifting your wrist; it did just that. He closed the velvet boxed, placing it over your vanity, only the ornate ring left alone in the silk, replaced instead by your engagement ring.

Dressed in a black suit, a silk bow tied around his neck, he was beyond any mortal compliment you could offer him; calling him entrancing, striking, or even magnificent would be a severe disservice to him.

So you reserved yourself to silence on the subject.

“I think my ear is going to rip off,” you commented pouting, feeling the tug of war the jewels were playing with gravity.

The corner of his lip wrinkled, supposedly amused.

“Valentinos and Louboutins,” he spontaneously announced. “I wasn’t sure what you liked.”

“You didn’t.”

“They’re in your closet.”

“You need to stop taking everything I say literally,” you chided.

“I can afford it.”

There was no sense in arguing, the man was too stubborn. You made a note to be more cautious with your humour.

He had essentially completed your season’s collections.

You slipped your feet into a pair of crystal-bowed, gold Valentinos, before eagerly returning to your previous post to ice your shortbread in the kitchen.

...

You caught a glimpse of a whirlwind of cobalt blue flashing through the kitchen doorway.

Holding the piping bag suspended over the cookies, you spared a glance over your hunched shoulders.

Yukari stood there, as if presenting herself, donning an arrestingly beautiful cobalt gown, sewn in velvet, the bodice embellished in trails of gold with foliage inspired motifs, her sleeves spilling past her wrists in a way which was offensively regal. It was plain why she assumed she had a chance with your husband, she epitomized modern beauty; charming yet mature, a sharp nose with raised cheekbones. She wasn’t hindered by an aura of childlike innocence the way you were.

“What are you supposed to be,” she questioned with a disingenuous smile, sashaying towards you. “Cinderella? Or has he demoted you to be his housewife?”

You assumed the comment was primarily inspired by your apron.

“Cooking is a life skill,” you flexed your jaw, exhaling to suppress the fizzling ire. “Though me being Cinderella would be fitting, only if you were my evil-stepmother. However,” you sang the word, “I already got one of those. Audition again for one of the rats who turn into the horses.”

She cackled manically, her perfectly manicured claws grating the marble counter.

“Want to make a bet?” she ground her teeth.

“Sure, I like seeing you lose.”

“I bet I can sleep with your husband before the night is over.”

She had noticed something displaced about your disposition, and she would find out what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Macarons: https://pin.it/gqxanfblza56yn  
> Cakes:https://pin.it/wiytcjqx4rxkgq  
> Cupcakes: https://pin.it/azig7gr67hl2v7  
> Australian ice cream tart for xAlmasyx: https://pin.it/sfx6guychloql2
> 
>  
> 
> Dress: https://pin.it/hqiagtsbhbmeyh  
> Heels: https://pin.it/i46inup3homobg
> 
> Yukari’s dress: https://pin.it/zmfuc4jpdzmgrz
> 
> Tell me what you think :)


	40. Bids For Affection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drama, everywhere. 
> 
> PandaMuse, here’s copious amounts of Soryu for you, here and more to come. 
> 
> Also, given the characters, I think I’m pretty clever for the title. It’s also 4 am. Idek anymore. Enjoy!

Why was it that her wager inspired tears?

Perhaps it was the visualization of it, or the probability of it happening behind your realm of knowledge or further still the reality that you had come on to your husband and been rejected a disappointing number of times. You were beginning to doubt your appeal.

The bag of frosting met its demise in your iron grip.

You could love him unconditionally, but should she succeed, much like him, infidelity wasn’t a transgression you could forgive.

In spite of your misgivings you entertained the wager.

“You think you can seduce my husband,” you chuckled darkly. “Do your worst. I fucking dare you. I’ll wager you my wedding band and engagement ring.”

“Your fingers are about to be a lot lighter. She smiled as she said this, picking up a shortbread cookie.

Slapping her hand you disagreed, “Monsters couldn’t hope to evolve to the level of a god.”

“Who taught you that?”

“My husband.”

“I what?” The man in question entered the room, eyeing you both with suspicion. “It’s past half six,” he told you. “What the hell are you still doing here?”

“Ah, here, I’m done,” you composed yourself. “Have the maids plate it for the kids.”

Brushing shoulders with the seductress you walked to stand before your husband. He stripped you of the stained apron.

Leaning forward you clung on to the sleeves of his suit jacket, asking for a kiss. He obliged.

“Keep your eyes open,” you whispered as your lips brushed. He usually did.

“Why?”

“Just,” you stressed the word, “do it.”

You couldn’t have hoped to find greater comfort nor greater satisfaction in that moment as predatory, blue sapphires flickered above you as you marked him yours.

...

Of course, this whole ordeal could easily have been avoided had you disclosed the wager to the man it involved. Except you reasoned, such a tactic would only postpone the happening until they were away from your prying eyes and not prevent it should he really be inclined to it.

It occurred to you as you walked away that Yukari had not wagered anything on her part.

  
“You smell good,” you told your husband as he escorted you to grand ballroom.

“Is that your code for something?” he intuitively questioned.

It means I want you to ruin my life in bed Seto, your mind screamed, you’re you, who wouldn’t? You being his wife of all people felt entitled to him indulging you sexually. Instead you opted for a tamer response.

“No, it means if there was a her version of the perfume, I would wear it.”

“You endorse it technically speaking.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Dolce and Gabbana perfume you’re the spokesmodel for,” Seto began to elucidate, before he was interrupted by another thought. Pulling you aside he spoke resolutely, “Oh and Ichinomiya will be in attendance tonight. I expect you to be on your best behaviour.”

“I’m not a stray puppy, what does that even mean?”

“It means I don’t - Just remember who’s wife you are. It’s been a long time since you were close, a lot of years between then and now.”

“Are you suggesting I’m going to be all over Soryu?”

“I never specified one between the two,” he remarked accusingly.

Swallowing your lips you chose silence.

“It’s fine,” he willed himself to assure, lightening his tone as he observed you become crestfallen. “Smile,” he implored, frustrated with himself, “it looks better on you.”

“I’m not your marionette, I can’t smile when you tell me to and ignore people when you tell me to. I understand you’re used to commanding people around in your life and never hearing the word no, but I can’t live like that.” You were playing against yourself, your subconscious reminded, pushing him towards a subservient option. You interjected as he motioned to speak, clutching his forearm, suddenly anxious, “I won’t leave your side.”

“Cute,” he taunted. “You’re less likely to end up between a rock and a hard place if you’re with me.”

Nodding, you walked past him; fingers clasping your wrist tugging you back. Your somber expression had been less than convincing.

“Relax,” he sighed, holding you to his chest, “I’m not upset with you.” There was no way he didn’t have a chip installed in your brain. “Why are you so tense?”

“Because...I want to do good,” your voice was brittle. It was the half truth. “I’ve never hosted something this big and -”

“You don’t remember,” Seto corrected, “doesn’t mean you haven’t. Look at me. They’re attending a party in our home, the most powerful family in this country. Let _them_ be afraid.” His tone was guttural, digging into every surface it reached. “You have me.”

Acknowledging his words with a sober smile, you reached your arm out to him, urging him to wrap it around his.

...

  
Standing atop the carved marble staircase to the floor of the ballroom, you attempted to cloak your marvel. Dubbing it a room was misleading, and a disservice to the architecture; the space was something a French chateau would boast. It was difficult to believe that such a place existed in the house you were expected to call home, though at once, it also wasn’t; you couldn’t fathom where the boundaries of reality and the realm of possibility ended for your husband. For all you could expect, the great manor housed shipwrecks from the Bermuda Triangle, simply because it enticed his fancy.

The domed glass roof was oblong, at least thirty feet high and held up by marbled, ivory pillars adorned with wreaths of gold. Gilded, crystal chandeliers crowned with candles floated under; the summer breeze stealing into the room bustling with silk and taffeta wrapped bodies through crescent moon windows in the roof. French doors punctuated the ivory walls embellished with plaster in floral motifs. A grand piano played in a corner, surrounded by an orchestra donning sleek black.

Seto, with an obscure gesture of his hand called for the footman to announce your presence. The footman requested with an orotund voice the attention of the guests, a veil of silence pacifying the clamour and commotion.

“Directors of Kaiba Corporation, Kodama, and all of our guests, welcome,” Seto’s raucous voice tore through the silence, filling the grand room, thundering against the walls. It was disconcerting each time he spoke that way. “We are pleased you could join us to toast the merger between our two great corporations. Know that it is an honour, to be present to witness the foundation of this remarkable venture, which will define the future of the global gaming industry. Prepare yourselves to be marvelled, enticed and inspired.” His meaningful pause cued the eruption of rapturous applause. Always the showman, you mused. With his raised hand he commanded silence once again. “I hope you find entertainment prepared enjoyable. The dessert tonight ladies and gentleman, was prepared by my beautiful fiancée, the president of SKO entertainment and Kodama Corporation.” Looking only at you, he had stressed the word beautiful, as he introduced you, inspiring your genuine surprise and to a degree embarrassment at having been singled out without warning. You failed to recognize the pride with which his chest had swollen at your introduction, as if a little boy presenting a piece of art he had created at a primary school show and tell.

Accompanied by a shrill whistle, “You look good together,” Mokuba’s croaky voice rang with mischief from the base of the steps, alleviating the tension pulsating behind your ears and lifting the room with a light round of laughter.

Directing him a miffed glare, the elder brother continued, relieving a footman with a silver tray of a glass of champagne. He handed you a glass, sternly advising he not see it anywhere near your lips.

“Once again, welcome, I hope you all have a pleasant evening,” Seto raised his glass, the guests reciprocating his gesture.

You had elected not to add to his introduction, and you descended the steps to roaring applause.

“You really need to get a room,” Mokuba was the first to greet you; Atsuna like an annoying sticker you couldn’t hope to completely scratch off on his arm.

“Last I recall, we already do,” Seto retorted smugly, prompting his younger sibling’s gagging reflex; his face flushing an ill green. “I see you’re still here,” your husband then turned his attention to the aforementioned appendage. “Leeches are harder to dispose of than I assumed, pity.”

Reflexively you squeezed his arm, urging him to stop, the thought occurring to you that the young girl could very well be expecting his brother’s child. The thought of being neglected and worse still assaulted to such a degree by your husband’s family was incredibly saddening to you all of a sudden.

“What’s with you?” he inadvertently carried his ire to your address, though before you could return the inquiry, you were surrounded by a hoard of strangers, buzzing restlessly with an unrelenting bombardment of questions. They were so exhaustingly curious about you.

There were faces you were expected to recognize, others you didn’t, and all at once, it became too overwhelming. You needed to sit. You suddenly grew hyper-aware of the strain of your heels on your ankles, and the subsequent pull tearing up your calves to your lower back. Blood thumped behind your ears though it wouldn’t circulate your brain. The fruity perfume of the women were suffocating and nauseating.

  
When had you become the head of a committee of strangers apprehending you, standing in a half-circle? You had hardly left the safety of the steps leading down to this chaos. Your husband wrapped his arm around you, securing his fingers against your upper arm. In short, you were afraid. Afraid they would discover you were a fraud.

“No, the date is still to be decided,” you vaguely registered your husband answer, it was regarding your wedding you understood. “There’s hardly a rush.”

Nudging your arm he promoted you to speak. You had missed the question. Timidly you requested he repeat himself, and instead, a slender woman sheathed in cobalt blue spoke.

“A designer?” you asked.

“Yes, for the wedding dress, I would love to design for you.” Of course, recollection dawned on you, she regularly showcased her collections in New York Fashion Week. Recently, she made Forbe magazine’s thirty under thirty, along with yourself and your husband. Except, how did you recall?

“I was hoping for a custom design from Dior or Maison Valentino,” you found yourself saying, “perhaps Marchesa.” When had you decided that, you wondered.

“That’s disappointing,” the auburn haired designer admitted, “I was hoping you would stay domestic when searching for a dress designer.”

“Nothing’s decided of course,” you spoke, intending to appease.

Few other conversations of similar lack in consequence transpired, though mostly undertaken by your husband. One detail you had managed to observe during its course being the shadow your husband had gained; the siren cosplaying as a daydream who insisted on standing dangerously close to him, her shoulder brushing against his right arm.

She followed him as you walked, your husband parting the sea of intrigued guests, their expression ranging from fascinated to chagrined by your presence - though more likely survival - as they all insisted a conversation.

Seto was quick to scout his target, navigating his way to familiar faces.

“Oh,” he approached, discontent plaguing his words, “Ichinomiya.”

“Kaiba,” the simultaneous reception was hardly any more amicable.

You exchanged a warm smile with the former, the latter acknowledging you with stiff nod.

Both men donned suits nearly identical to your husband.

“See me for a moment in my study.” Seto’s request, which could more honestly be interpreted as an order, was received with hitched eyebrows, though they nodded in agreement. “Mokuba,” Seto spoke with evident exasperation leaning into his brother, “lose the plus one. This concerns business.”

Seto advised for Yukari, and his other secretary to remain, much to former’s displeasure.

...

The five of you left the ballroom separately, seeking different exits so as to not arouse suspicion.

Meeting in the corridors, Seto’s grip, which you had expected to loosen, instead tightened as if a vise in the presence of your old friends you had been advised were now reduced to acquaintances.

“Did you change your phone number?” Soryu inquired, appearing beside you as all of you walked through the corridors of the manor in a small congregation, trailed by Isono and other guard, to the study. “Or are you ignoring my calls?”

“What purpose do you have in calling my woman?” Seto was quick to interrupt.

“Your woman has a voice,” Soryu hoarsely reminded.

Anticipating the exchange deteriorating to fists and anarchy, Mokuba hastily intervened, fighting to the front of the group, and walking backwards as he motioned for the men to calm down.

“I got a new phone after the accident, I’m sorry it’s been so chaotic since then.”

“You hardly owe him an apology,” Seto chimed in, ire unconcealed.

“How’s your leg?” Soryu questioned, studying your unsteady step.

“Physio has fixed it for the most part. Thank you.”

“Of all the men in the world, you choose Kaiba,” Eisuke mused sardonically, a low chortle to his words. “There’s all of us, and you choose him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Seto sneered, baring his teeth.

“I wasn’t aware I was being ambiguous Kaiba,” Eisuke blandly returned.

“The trick Ichinomiya,” Seto matched his sarcasm, “is to wait till she’s legal to propose marriage.” This effectively silenced the man, though an indignant grunt did leave his lips.

A scowl was darkening all of the men’s features, all except the younger Kaiba, who simply appeared extremely apprehensive.

“For your information gentleman,” Seto smugly addressed the men who had helped themselves to seats on the set of leather settees nestled against a corner of the study. He closed the door, locking it, having posted two guards outside. You stood behind the head arm chair. “Legally, the woman before you is already my wife.” He assumed his seat on the arm chair, where you had anticipated.

The younger Kaiba tensed, and a sense of betrayal flooded the space.

“How could you not tell us?” Soryu demanded to know, and you stood transfixed, unsure of how to mollify the chaos your husband had unleashed.

“I - I didn’t - didn’t know - ”

“I suppose this would also be a suitable time to also make you aware that she is also expecting,” Seto continued his assault. “On that note, I will cut to the chase.”

Outrage burned, flames catching as if on dry hay in late August.

“You already got her pregnant?” Soryu barked, incensed, his personal unhappiness overwhelmed by his concern for you. “This isn’t the west. Society doesn’t know you two are married, are you attempting to ruin her Kaiba?”

“I will manage my wife’s affairs the way I see fit,” Seto growled in retaliation, assaulting the oak coffee table with his fist.

“This is not how you manage a woman’s honour!” Soryu disagreed.

It was a fight between bloodhounds.

“This isn’t the twelfth century and I’m not a commodity to be managed,” you admonished both the gents. Silence followed your words, as if in acceptance of what they had demanded.

“In either case, you need to get your affairs together Kaiba, and hold a wedding soon,”the otherwise impassive Eisuke unexpectedly chimed. “Now assuming that’s not why you’ve invited us in here, what’s the occasion?”

“A daughter of one of Seto’s board directors is pregnant,” you intercepted where your husband was hesitant to speak, “the family is claiming my brother-in-law’s the father. We called for a paternity test, and they - all of them - came back positive.”

“You smell foul play,” Eisuke assumed from your tone.

“Honestly I don’t know,” you admitted, “but we need it to be a negative.”

Mokuba called your name accusingly, “You can’t be serious.”

“Silence Mokuba,” Seto demanded.

“You want a forged test?” Soryu narrowed his eyes, ignoring the outraged younger Kaiba.

“It may not have to be,” Seto corrected, his hands pensively laced under his chin.

“Just make sure no one can trace the medical practitioner back to any of us,” you advised.

“You think this is our first rodeo?” Eisuke appeared insulted.

“No of course not,” you spoke in a small voice, “I’m sorry.”

“Did her highness apologize?” Eisuke chuckled; a manic laugh which was eerily similar to your husband’s escaping him. “What the hell got into you? Has marriage tamed you?”

“Shut it,” Seto snapped, misunderstanding your dynamic, “she’s not a creature to be tamed.”

“Funny way of asking for a favour Kaiba,” Eisuke snarled.

The air was pulled taut, constantly on the verge of snapping. It greatly agitated you, the tension.

“In any case,” Soryu interjected, “wouldn’t it have been wiser to meet when the people you’re conspiring against aren’t all gathered in your home?”

“They would have suspected the result regardless,” Seto explained. “Besides, the light is darkest under the lamp. They wouldn’t expect us to be so obvious.” A calculating smirk then settled on his lips as he continued, “Of course in exchange, I’ll donate an artifact from my private collection for one of your black market auctions. Does an artifact or two from an ancient Egyptian tomb interest you gentleman?”

You peered down at your husband with incredulity, you had never suspected Egypt was a point of interest for him. You could forget shipwrecks from Bermuda, for all you knew, he had ancient civilizations enclosed within the bowels of the mansion.

“Yes, a great deal in fact,” Eisuke leaned back, crossing his legs. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

“Indeed,” Seto nodded.

Soryu’s eyes remained unmoving on you.

...

“A word,” Soryu requested as the men exited the study, grasping your wrist.

“Yes, I’ve been meaning to,” you answered him softly. Seto joined you as if he were your shadow, towering behind you. “Alone, please,” you implored.

With a snarl he respected your wishes, leaving the study. The doors closed behind him.

...

Beyond the confines of the study, Seto was beckoned to a quiet corridor overlooking a mansion courtyard in full bloom with magnolias, under the guise of work matters. He was told it would only occupy a moment of his time.

However, the way her fingertips danced across his forearms, in the solitude of the dark corridor, it soon came to light where her true intentions laid.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ballroom: https://pin.it/ikccqipdexpm5u
> 
> Let me know what you think!


	41. Poisoned Apple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays! Consider this my gift to all of you!
> 
> MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING: There is a lot, and I mean a lot of reference to substance abuse/ drugging in this chapter, all of it unwittingly, and there is a lot of dubious/ non con, though mostly just dubious sexual encounters towards the end. It’s pretty mild personally, and the after math will be dealt with in the next chapter, or the one after that. No one really gets sexually assaulted or anything but if you are sensitive to coarse language and intercourse or the implication of intercourse which isn’t soft and sweet - for a lack of a better word - skip the end of this and ask your friends in the comments what happened. 
> 
> That being said, quite a lot of plot and character development happens in this chapter so, I personally encourage you to read it.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Are you happy?” Soryu inquired grimly, his voice a dull hoarseness. “I never pinned you to be the type of woman to settle and have kids this young. You’re too influential to be this homely.” There was spite in his tone, laced with disgust. “I feel you’ve regressed to be the girl you were when you were in high school. You’ve never apologized for anything. There’re rumours about Kaiba handling your conglomerate. Is this what you wanted?”

These men were bloodhounds for fear, for lack of conviction.

“Homely?” a wry smile crept your lips. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, but no. That accident wasn’t what you think,” you apprised in a somber tone. “I didn’t just break a leg and a rib and puncture a lung. My heart stopped twice, and lost a lot of blood.” You watched his face contort with consternation. “I was in a coma for three weeks. It’s a surprise I didn’t miscarry. My legs were so badly damaged they didn’t think I would walk again.” You paused, attempting to mend your voice pulled taut and brittle. “Each time I fell apart, I wasn’t there for myself, he was. I’m alive because of the transfusions he gave me and through all the time I was unconscious, he never left my side, waiting to for me to wake up. I owe him my life and for that I honour him.’’

“A marriage isn’t some pact written in blood,” he disagreed. “It’s beyond duty and obligation.”

“He had no obligation to do any of what he did. And I assure you I’m exactly where I want to be. I have no intention of being a pretty wife to a rich husband.”

“That’s some consolation I suppose,” Soryu husked. “How far along are you?”

“Almost ten weeks.”

“I see. Congratulations.”

“Are you not happy for me?” you asked him.

The question was confusing to him, he couldn’t say he was, though more so, it had been many years since you’ve consulted him regarding such a thing.

“Are you feeling better...now?”

“Seto’s been very diligent in looking after me, yes.”

“And are you?” he questioned, irritated by how your husband had suddenly become the subject of all your thoughts. “Are you happy?”

“I am.”

“That’s enough then.”

You beckoned him back as he motioned to leave, grasping his forearm.

“Would you - would you consider becoming her godfather?”

“Her?” he raised an eyebrow.

“Seto and I think it’s going to be a girl,” you beamed.

He remained impassive, scrutinizing you with charcoal eyes.

“I don’t think Kaiba would be very fond of the idea.”

“Seto would never say no if I wanted it enough.”

“That sounds more like you,” he chuckled; ominous pitch betraying his laugh. “If that’s what you want.”

“Thank you.”

He pulled his lips into a thin line; a failed attempt at a smile. Producing a business card from his pocket he scribbled a phone number with a fountain pen, balancing the piece of paper against a leather back rest.

“I’m sure your husband has it, but in case you’ve lost it.”

“Thank you,” you repeated. He turned on his heel, and took purposeful steps towards the door.

It was bizarre; you had never been romantically inclined to him, nor, you assumed, he to you, though you couldn’t help but be aware of the unresolved sentiments which were never discussed, sentiments you couldn’t recall spinning into existence but existed none the less. Had you grown estranged over the years, or had the friction always been there? Perhaps it was unfortunate timing or a misinterpretation of gratitude marred by time. You understood now that they would remain in such a state indefinitely; perhaps forever, because in reality, not everything was in a perpetual pursuit for closure.

He had felt safe once, but now he had been replaced, and outmatched with the fervour of emotions more binding; a predecessor to love.

You understood now why your husband had not wanted you meet him; nostalgia was misleading, and you couldn’t hope to compare the unblemished memory of someone, to their living, breathing doppelgängers; after all, you only ever remember what want to, and those rare tragedies you don’t.

...

Leaning against the doorframe of the study, you slipped off your high heels. Isono had continued to remain on guard.

“Did my husband leave you to spy on me?”

“No madam, he left me here in case you required assistance.”

“Assistance?” You hitched a brow. He nodded. “Where is he now?” It was strange that he had not stayed himself.

“Mr. Kaiba? He was called away by Miss. Komei a while ago.”

You began to seethe.

“Which way did she take him?”

  
...  
In a distant wing of the mansion, blue moonlight salvaged the corridor from the obscurity of darkness. The navy sky was sparsely tinted with rain clouds, which occasionally crawled over the opalescent moon, the earlier drizzle having momentarily let up.

  
“What did you need to tell me that was so important?” Seto demanded of his assistant, his hands clasped behind him, eyes trained on the mauve magnolia petals painted white under the stars. He needed to commission more of those trees to be planted, he absently noted.

“Mr. Chen from ID Industries has requested an audience with you at the end of the night to discuss a proposal.”

“Understood,” he dismissed. “Next time, don’t waste my time by dragging me half way across the place to inform me of something so trivial. You can go.”

“There’s actually something else, sir.” Yukari shifted awkwardly on her feet, modulating her voice with silvery intonations, “Something important.”

“Well?”

Her fingers danced as if a long-legged spider up his forearm, undoing his firm clasp. He turned to her with his brows drawn together; one arched. She pulled away. She was playing tug of war. He wouldn’t reciprocate the motion. His indifference perplexed her. She moved closer.

“I don’t have all night,” Seto reminded in a stentorian pitch, the night’s events having already worn at his patience. Behind frozen, indicolite eyes, his imagination knew no bounds, fathoming every scenario that could play out behind the closed doors of his study. It was reminiscent of Schrodinger’s experiment; until he threw open those doors himself, nothing was an impossibility. At the absence of words, he began to set off in the direction of his study, severely irritated.

“Senpai!” she called, voice thick and strangled. Seto paused mid-step, the implied intimacy of the address nauseating to him.

“I thought I made clear,” he sneered, whipping around, “that you were to address me as Mr. Kaiba?”

The flustered beauty stuttered, staggering forward on her feet. She composed herself, willing herself not to exchange her gaze with his.

Perhaps he was immune, she considered, no, it was likely that he had more resistance than she had predicted. She needed to buy more time.

Reaching for his hands by his sides, she lifted them, bringing one to rest over her chest, the other she forcefully caressed against her cheek. Reflexively, the young CEO recoiled, a sincere attempt to reclaim his appendages. Her grip was unyielding; more resolute than he had intended. As ruthless as he was, he couldn’t push a woman, let alone assault one physically. If he allowed himself the liberty of using his unrestrained strength, she would surely be injured.

She closed her eyes, her flushed cheek pressed against his palm.

“Do you want to lose your job or do you have a death wish?” the exasperated president threatened, counting down the seconds before he would reverse her grip.

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” she purred, breathing in his scent.

“No, but my wife will have no qualms,” his manic laughter filled the hallway. “Now let go, or I will have no choice.”

“Seto senpai,” she cooed, “I waited so long to tell you how much I’ve admired you all these years. I even dressed in your colour.”

“Flattering,” he derided, “but we all know where this speech is really going. And I hate to break your little fantasy, but I’m not interested. First, because I’m married, and second, even if I wasn’t, it would require me regarding you an equal, and quite frankly, I never have. Comparing yourself to my wife is an insult.”

“Opinions can be changed,” she challenged, trembling. “I’ll show you. Say the word and I’m your- ”

“Quit your snivelling,” he commanded, his voice wound tight, “and if you want your post, let go. I’m still willing to overlook this fuck-up considering your professional ethic, so long as this never repeats.”

“Give me a chance,” she implored.

“I am, to keep your job. Don’t make me hurt a woman,” he snapped, twisting her wrists, reversing her hold. She shrieked in pain, convinced her bones would snap. His fingers tightly circling her wrists, he pulled her close, his lips next to her ears. She allowed her head to fall forward, her lips a hairsbreadth from ghosting his neck.

Ultimately, she believed, no man was immune, not to her; after all, she had given him a dose potent enough to kill a horse.

...

Turning the corner of the corridor you found him.

“Seto!” you screeched, exhausted and unreasonably irritated. The split-second it took him to turn his head had exasperated you to such an extent that you pitched one shoe at him, the crystal encrusted heel landing a mere foot of reaching him.

Averting his gaze from the courtyard beyond the window, he frowned, picking up the heel his wife had launched at him, likely, he assumed, intending for it to make contact.

Plopping down on the marbled hallway, uncaring for if dust would mark your gown, you flung the other shoe a few feet from you also. Again, Seto picked it up, approaching you.

“What’s with you?” he grunted, lifting you against his waist, your heels slung from his fingers. “You’re too old to be throwing a tantrum.”

“I hate people,” you groused, resting your chin on his shoulder.

He released a guttural laugh.

“What?” he mocked. “Your little reunion not go as expected?”

“I don’t what I expected. I thought we were friends.”

He had expected to feel satisfied by that response, but your despondency was infectious.

“Like I said, people change, they grow apart,” he soberly advised.

“I suppose,” you moped. “I just want to go to sleep.”

He chortled, “Would you like me to send all the guests home?”

“I wish.”

“It’ll be over before you know it.”

Walking with you to the top of the staircase, he had intended to carry you down, except the steps were multiplying before him, swaying beneath his feet. Without sparing a word to you, he set you down, slipping your heels back on your feet. He dismissed the sensation, identifying it as a symptom of stress and fatigue.

Surprised by the sudden discount in affection, you appraised him with a quizzical brow. You received no explanation is his stoic countenance.

You began to grow anxious with the knowledge that he had been with Yukari, even if for a few short moments. You began to depict what could have transpired between them, relating now, every uncharacteristic action of his to the exchange you had not witnessed.

...

Rejoining the guests in the ballroom, meaningless conversation, punctuated scarcely by queries and discussions pertaining to your corporations, presence in the stock exchange and future ventures occupied you and your husband for the greater part of the evening.

You learned over the course of these exchanges that humans - all humans - possessed an inherent talent for acting as tabloids, when their curiosities were provoked enough.

You and Seto had agreed prior that your pregnancy would not be disclosed, leaving people to believe whatever they had heard. It would not directly affect stock prices, he had reasoned, and the exposed knowledge of your pregnancy could pose an avoidable risk.

Seto had made a point to stand unusually close, and not just when Kaoru, Soryu or Eisuke were around. You were beginning to contemplate what was displaced about your husband; he seemed perfectly composed, not a hair out of place, and yet every so often, he would stumble on his feet, though you were certain no one else had noticed. His voice had fallen a register, words growing breathy.

“Seto, are you alright?” you asked, sotto voce, disconcerted.

“Perfectly,” he assured, pressing his lips against your temple, then possessively kissing your shoulder. Your heart stuttered.

At first you wondered if he was attempting to arouse a reaction from the audience, perhaps assert a point. Gasps swept the circle of company, brows drawing together and eyes narrowing on certain gentlemen you were acquainted with. Some women swooned, green with envy.

It was when this affection, this public display of passion did not fade, continuing to escalate in fervour and intensity that you grew concerned. It certainly raised eyebrows, though many passed it off as Seto Kaiba once again boasting one of his many achievements.

His breath danced against your ear when he spoke, his hand - the one not occupied by a glass of wine, Prosecco or some convoluted cocktail - wandering the contours of your waist over your dress, his chest pressed against your side.

When he was not speaking to the company, in a smoky whisper, he declared his ardour for you, stopping just short of escalating to obscenities.

“I was frustrated all day at work, through all my meetings,” he had husked, “I couldn’t stop thinking of you, doing things to you, you’re like a drug.” You had responded with silence, your indifference seemingly encouragement to him. “You know you’re asking for it if you keep looking at me that way,” he had threatened seductively. He was relentless.

Not that you were averse to being seduced, only that it was unlike him, and deeply unsettling.

Dinner progressed in this familiar fashion; where though Seto’s attention was constantly engaged by his associates and directors, all vying for a morsel of his regard, his hand had crept to stroke your inner thigh where the fabric of your dress fell away, separated by the high-slit. On occasion, with a soured expression, he exchanged words with Soryu and Eisuke, both mirroring his dismay, as if conversation with each other was torment, and still, his hand rarely strayed.

It occurred to you on a tangent that considering the parallels in their dispositions, it was a wonder the three men did not indulge in each other’s company more frequently.

Atsuna had quite openly fought Mokuba for the seat to your left, which while at at first had been perplexing and cause for irritation, being under her unrelenting surveillance and scrutiny had now graduated to being uncomfortable. This feeling was especially distressing now that she had discovered your husband’s hand caressing your thigh under the silk broadcloth draped table. His fingers daring to wander as far up as your lace panties. Scarlet flooded her cheeks at the realization, and in consequence yours, as your agitation steadily worsened.

“Have you gone mad?” you chastised him, seizing his fingers with the tightest grip you could muster.

The truth was that he slowly was descending into madness, unbeknownst to even himself, his commendable self-control both his ally and greatest foe. He was building to explode.

He would only smirk manically, leaning to whisper how much of a turn on - in his own words - your resistance was.

He wouldn’t realized it in his haze, but lust was burning him to embers from the inside out.

...

Dessert was served in the great hall following dinner in buffet style; your cakes poised on tall, intricate, crystal structures; cupcakes spiralling up to meet the cakes as if castle turrets. The macaron towers stood beside them, surrounded by your other confections, ice cream served in frozen bowls of ice, with fresh flowers laminated within.

As expected, being smothered by praise had grown to be awkward and your responses increasingly insincere. In spite of being trained to be admired by random strangers you’ve never met through your adolescent years, one could only think up so many ways to accept a compliment following the fiftieth time you were commended on your roulade.

Seto on the other hand seemed to be revelling in the moment, relishing every compliment he received on how capable, versatile and accomplished you were. You worried he would need an additional seat for his ego, at the rate his pride swelled... or several.

...

  
At the conclusion of dessert, guests were ushered back to the ballroom. A rain of fireworks painted the grey skies above the domed roof with stardust, sapphire and silver. Inside, the ballroom drowned in the swooning of mesmerized guests.

The orchestra lifted the ballroom with light music, encouraging dancing.

You would have loved to dance, had your legs not been impeded with limited coordination following the accident, and your husband... lord knew what was wrong with him tonight. A permanent scowl had settled on his face, though he insisted on having you wrapped around him.

As you watched couples flock to the dance floor under a shower of blue and ivory light, you were approached by two gentleman; a bearded, greying gent, and who you later understood was his son, appearing about Seto’s age.

The older introduced himself as Mr. Chen, to your husband, requesting a private audience from the both of you. Seto seemed somewhat acquainted with the both of them, dispassionately entertaining the request.

...

Leading the two gentlemen to your husband’s study, you leaned into Seto as you ascended a staircase.

“Seto, where did Yukari go?”

He tensed at the question.

“She wasn’t feeling well,” he tonelessly informed, “I had her sent home.”

Something was amiss in that sentence, it was obvious he was being economical with the truth. In that moment however, you didn’t not possess the liberty to interrogate him, nor he the sanity or inclination to answer you with any sincerity.

His skin felt feverish to the touch, a blush contrasting his complexion which was always a pale alabaster.

“Do you have a fever?” you asked him, concerned.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Seto returned.

Guiding the two men into the study, Seto stole a kiss from you behind their backs, sloppily smothering his lips against your neck, standing in the doorway. His lips felt scalding against your cold skin. You were beginning to grow convinced he would make passionate love to you right then and there, or at least suck on your neck until the two men noticed. Instead, he swiftly parted from you an instant before the men turned, waiting to be invited to sit.

“You gentlemen are aware that we already have a supplier for this component, don’t you?” Seto inquired. He had occupied his previous seat on the head arm-chair. You were seated to his left, on the leather three-seat settee, while the older president was seated across from you, to your husband’s left. The younger tycoon had helped himself to a seat beside you, to your left.

The nervous tension was tangible against the soft pouring of rain beyond the closed curtains and windows. It fascinated you to observe how your husband’s mere presence, his complete silenced served to deeply discompose people.

“Yes,” the older gentleman cleared his throat, voice tremulous. “Yes, I’m aware you have dealings with a San-Francisco based company.”

“You’ve certainly done your research,” Seto commended, and this seemed to offer a great boost of confidence to the older man.

“Yes, well, one could never be too prepared when dealing with a Kaiba.”

You couldn’t see the praise in that statement, though perhaps it was the implied reverence which he had meant to convey, and either way, it appeared to please your husband to some degree, or at the very least, it steered clear of sparking his wrath.

“We think it would be beneficial on many fronts to shift your partnership from them to us,” the younger gentleman carried on, his voice deep and fruity. Still, in spite of his warm tone, and his charming outer bearing, there was something unsavoury about the character.

“How so?”

“Well, dealings with us would take less time on the transportation and shipping front.”

“I realize that,” Seto snarled. “What do you take me for? Let me put this for you in basic words you’ll comprehend, I meant in terms of how your facilities and the components’ circuits would be an improvement from my current supplier. I rather not waste my time if you’re offering me the same product, with something as trivial as an improved shipping route as your excuse.”

The conversation quickly took a dive into dense technological jargon and with it, so did your attention span. You were just a figure head, and your lack of participation not only established, but perpetually emphasized that, perhaps to a misleading degree. However, even your former self would have been marginalized in this situation, your forte lying in PR, marketing and promotions.

It was your first time, in your existing memory, witnessing your husband in such a setting, and how comfortably he commanded his power was unexpectedly titillating.

The ominous flickering of the chandelier in the old study interrupted the discussion briefly, the steady whirring of metallic wheels in the distance revving to life as the room recovered from the fleeting moment of darkness.

It was as if the darkness had never existed, as if you had blinked for a really long moment, but in that split-second, you sensed a gentle squeeze on your hand in the obscurity of blackness; Seto leaning away as the chandelier lifted the darkness. Your fingers had unwittingly dug into the leather armrest, fingertips draining of blood.

...

The old oaks were bending under the weight of the rain as the guests departed for the night. The summer storm spinning itself from thin air. The driveway was beginning to transform into a small stream, thick water glossing the stone paved driveway.

You stood in the entrance hall beside your husband and his brother, bidding farewells to the guests. Your husband offered nothing besides his presence, serving the purpose of a stone pillar, while you and Mokuba wished the guests a safe journey home, and thanked them for coming.

Seto’s voice, which you were convinced he had withdrawn for the night, was forced out of temporary retirement, when a dull thud broke against his back, disturbing his footing, and causing him to falter forward ever so slightly. Of course, had his condition been better, as rough as the assault had been, he would likely not have flinched.

“Kaiba!” Eisuke’s rambunctious, obviously intoxicated voice boomed. “Do you know how to throw a party!”

Ready to sink his fingers into the throat of whoever had been responsible for the indiscretion, your husband spun on his heel.

Before him stood the casino mogul, staggering on his feet, three giggling, young women with flittering eyelashes on his arms.

“Ichinomiya,” your husband seethed, “I didn’t realize you’d wanted to die by my hands, but it can be arranged if you try that again.” Had he slurred his words or had you grown too perceptive of his articulation and the nuances in his intonation?

He laughed, discernibly unhinged, effectively unnerving Mokuba.

“Excuse us,” Soryu stepped out from behind, his fingers soothing a brewing headache between his eyes. “We’ll be on our way,” he spoke addressing you.

 

Mokuba was the last to leave, insisting he return to Tokyo before the morning.

  
...

Seto had surrendered completely to his consuming desires, having relinquished self-control unconsciously, he was reduced to a state of intoxication and detachment from reality, only fuelled by carnal desire, and the intense desire to satiate it. You had unwittingly become the object of this satiation.

You were also beginning to feel detached from reality, succumbing to the fatigue writhing in your veins, not that he was in a state to be dissuaded.

He hardly waited to see his brother off at the front door.

As if he were hypnotized, without explanation, you found yourself being yanked up the staircase, uncaring for how his vise like grip strained your wrist.

The door handle posed more of a challenge to him than it usually did, fumbling with the brass hook for a number of moments before plastering you against the opened door, claiming your lips. You could taste the alcohol on his tongue.

Thunder crackled in near skies; something ripping as it writhe.

Squealing, you grappled his forearms anchored against the door; a desperate bid to break free. His predatory eyes weren’t blue, they were tainted, desire having charred the azure charcoal.

“Seto snap out of it,” you begged. “You’re scaring me.”

He couldn’t hear you. He was deafened by the blood pounding against his ears, tortured by the ache swelling between his legs. His carnal hunger was calling your name. It would drive him mad, it convinced him, if he was deprived of you; he saw you only as an object, the portal to his release. His vision was red. His mind was empty of his own convictions.

Behind the closed bedroom door he apprehended you by your upper arms, lips swallowing yours. Your chest wound tighter and tighter. Imprisoning you in his embrace, he unfastened the zipper. Your skin burned where the fabric had been torn from you.

When the bed broke your fall, you had been stripped bare. The heavy jewels remained; breathing becoming onerous under its weight. You had lost a heel in the struggle.

Writhing in his unyielding grasp, your hand reached for something, anything. You couldn’t be sure what you were searching for, a weapon to defend yourself, or was it something to brace yourself against? It wasn’t ambiguous what was coming, and a part of you was undeniably aroused, eagerly anticipating him.

Your fingers slid under his pillow, missing their intended target, your tips of your fingers instead brushing against cold metal. Your eyes never leaving the predator mounting you, your forefinger mindlessly hooked against it.

An ear-shattering explosion encompassed the space, emanating from the distance; it faded to darkness.

“Seto?” you called out to him, quavering. Your hands shot up to search for him in the darkness. Your fingers fisted around the fabric of his suit jacket, attempting to draw him closer. You called him again, “Please, Seto I’m so scared. I can’t see anything,” you whimpered.

Cursing, you heard the rustling of fabric. A spark of neon silver suddenly erupted above you, illuminating his face, before it dispersed, enveloping you in a sphere of grainy light. He tossed his phone over the nightstand, providing the illusion of the orb of light floating through space, shifting slightly, though its glow continued to illuminate a small clearing in the darkness.

In this clearing your eyes traveled up to your hands, clutching his lapel, a hand gun slung through your fingers. It wasn’t your first time seeing a gun, or even holding one, but you’ve never had the occasion to find one under anyone’s pillow. Never had you expected to find one under your husband’s, not in a mansion so heavily guarded. He wasn’t a mob boss, so why? They were all foolish wonderings at best, why wouldn’t a man like Seto Kaiba keep a gun under his pillow when he slept, a man with so many enemies?

The question then became, which side of the pointed barrel would you be on, that is, did he keep the gun to protect you, or him from you?  
  
Clicking his tongue he disarmed you. You had no chance. You hadn’t even comprehend his hands move, and suddenly the pistol lay displaced somewhere over the sheet, in the realm of darkness you would never reach for.

He clawed at his bow tie, undoing the strip of silk.

Leaning over, his lips pinned against your neck, his fingers fondled your soft breasts, whispering obscenities of how he would ruin you, make you his, over and over.

There was lightening dancing in your nerves, stealing the air from your lungs and replacing it with electricity, threatening to stop your heart as it sparked against your blood.

The man above you was exquisite, the sight of him tempting. Frightened and yet tormented for him you wondered, who was he?

Your husband was burning alive.

Grey flashes of memory began to tear through your blissful screens of ignorance. It was déjà vu, but he had spared you then; you knew he wouldn’t spare you now.

He would use you to save himself however he pleased all night; sentiments and affection were a burden forgotten for the morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be waiting patiently for the pitch forks. Do let me know what you think :)
> 
> The whole next chapter will be smut. Fair warning, for when I actually get around to writing it.


	42. Broadened Horizons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another disclaimer/ trigger warning: This chapter for all intents and purposes is smut. It deals with mature themes - obviously - and delves pretty heavily into forced sexual encounters. Just a note that I’m not glorifying/ romanticizing this as ideal, nor am I normalizing because quite frankly, it is in reality a crime. Not perpetuating male power fantasies and the idea that women gain intense pleasure from being dominated/ used by a man either. Everything is highly subjective here. This is her husband that she is sexually inclined to a great extent. Not all women will willingly submit this way in any other situation. Again, consent is important from both parties regardless and well that will be discussed in the next chapter before you come at me with pitchforks. 
> 
> Side note, my pages app deleted 2000 words (literally a random portion) because apparently my work wasn’t good enough, so I’m coming to you like a day late. 
> 
> If you know me in real life, I’m more gossip girl than fifty shades of freaky so while I did try to make this dark and whatever, it’s still me and so it still sucks. Bare with it and the awful unintended puns. You have no idea how much research I did around aphrodisiacs, refractory periods and the connections in between. At me if anything feels biologically inaccurate and I will be more than happy to give you my sources in MLA formats XD What is life coming to.
> 
> Enjoy.

In the grainy, silver haze, Seto’s eyes were invasive. He could see too much you were convinced, but in truth he could see very little; he saw your supple skin and flushed breasts, blushing from the assault of his fingers and he fantasized of the euphoria of relief.

He was mad, though he wasn’t entirely depraved; you weren’t a sum of disembodied parts, it had to be you, all of you. You were a goddess, and you were his, though his addled mind couldn’t hope to relate the two; lust ravaging his reverence.

In his mania, he thrived off the doe-eyed submission in your expression. To his moral compass which had already been tampered with, you were dancing electricity.

His skin was feverish, his fringe dampening against the sweat pearling on his temples, and he survived on a single instinct; he had to have you.

You didn’t know him. He didn’t know himself.

The silk lapelled suit jacket was the first to be torn off his body and shed, followed by his silk bow undone to a ribbon. His panting reminded you of a panther maddened by bloodlust. He didn’t possess patience for his shirt buttons past the first two, so hooking his fingers in between them he tore the offending garment open; engraved, plastic buttons bursting and raining over the sheets. The shirt found the same fate on the cold marble, settling with light susurrus.

He poured over you as he clawed at his belt buckle, lips scorching your skin in a shower of drunken kisses over your cheeks, lips, eyelids; anywhere and everywhere on your face. His tongue glossed your skin with a trail of saliva where his lips had met. You came to life at the hungry touch of his lips.

“Seto,” you whimpered, squirming under him, “this isn’t you, please...stop it.”

You wouldn’t deny that you had fantasized your husband having his way with you many times; anticipated his touch, his musky scent, his eyes storming as you pleasured him, how he would move above you, but this was not passion, it was ambush.

Had he always forced himself on you? Would he shoot you if you refused him? Why did you delude yourself with the illusion of choice? And the most frightening, were you too shameless a woman for still desiring him this way somewhere in your consciousness?

His suit pants were discarded over the floor somewhere.

A hand slid under your head, his knuckles scraping the pillow. Yours reached up to weakly resist him by his shoulders.

“Quit your snivelling and hold still,” Seto ordered through his clenched jaw, “you’re mine to do with as I please.” His fingers closed like a vise, grabbing you by the base of your hair. Tilting his head, you fleetingly caught sight of the silver light running along his jaw. The next sensation was his lips meshing with your swollen ones coated with his saliva. His teeth bit into your lower lip, swallowing it, then sucking on it. He tasted like whiskey; rough and bitter.

Sound drowned behind the blood in your ears. You grew exhausted by the erratic rise and fall of your own chest.

You couldn’t be sure when his briefs had come off. You could feel his exposed arousal grinding you.

“Are you ready to be a good girl for me?” he grunted, forcing his tongue past the guard of your lips. An inch further and you would gag.

Your response was a succession of increasingly agitated groans, begging him to release you. You were breathing his air, faintness hazing your senses. Your arms pushing against his shoulders grew numb and limp.

The pad of his thumb caressed your elongated nipples, twisting them, pinching them; puncturing electricity into your nerves. A needy moan grated past your throat.

Satisfied by this acknowledgment he chuckled, slurring in question, “You’re mine to own. Do you understand who your body belongs to now?” His lips grazed past your jaw to nip at the soft skin of your neck, his hot breath stinging your ear as he moved.

You could hear the soft smack of flesh beating flesh as he stroked his length; a desperate bid to momentarily alleviate the agonizing tension of bolts tightening against every inch of his rigid and swelling appendages. The pain was excruciating.

Upon receiving no response besides your defiant writhing, undecided whether to accept his will, he descended further into delirium.

His fingers closed around your throat, seething, “I asked you a question.” He was hovering above you.

It was hopelessly titillating though equally terrifying.

You would only whimper. It would betray your conscience either way; whether you rejected him or pleaded for more.

“When your master asks you a question,” he hissed, “you answer. Do you understand?”

Your slender neck was bound into the pillow by his hand, strangling your words.

He forced your hand to grip the soft skin below the hilt of his cock, wrapping his large hand over your considerably smaller one as it rounded over the impressive bulges. He forced you to clench your fist in pulsating motions over him. He exhaled strenuously, suppressing a grunt.

There was chaos wreaking havoc in his chest. Your gentle touch accomplished the opposite of its intended effect; he craved you more.

His other hand began to part your legs. You found yourself spreading them open for him willingly.

Without warning, he drove himself into you, filling all of you with his thick erection. You clenched all around him. The friction chased you to the end of sanity, and a shrill cry escaped you. Your toes curled; he held your legs down. Swearing in a mutter, he collapsed over you. He buried his face in your neck, groaning as if an injured beast.

Yes, this is what he had wanted, what he had hungered for. It was smouldering embers meeting cool ice.

Tears were gathering against the corners of your eyes; your liberated palms once again beating against his shoulders.

Aggravated, he gathered your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head. His other hand continued to choke you, while he thumped your throbbing sex. Your inner lips quivered, blood rushing to places you never thought they could fill. Blood beat in your ears like a drum, painting your skin pink and feeding into the mouth of your arousal.

Your body remembered this rhythm, your walls contracting to accommodate him. You discovered a euphoric combination of pleasure and tension in his thrusts. There was a brewing tornado in your chest.

Hammering into your pulsating core, he lifted away from you, the act of restraining your hands bothersome. He appeared positively demented. One hand continuing to wrap around your neck, constricting your windpipe, he reached for something beyond the darkness. Petrified you began to whimper pleadingly, squealing, producing whatever noise your strangled throat could muster. Except, instead of the barrel of his gun, from the darkness he fetched his leather belt.

You couldn’t be certain what you had excepted as you squeezed closed your eyes. There was blind trust however, some instinctive faith.

You felt him apprehend your wrists once again, cold leather encircling the seized appendages. You felt them drawn upwards as he tied the loose end of the belt against a post of the carved headboard. Your breasts lifted on your slender form arched to resemble the limbs of a bow, to accommodate his binds.

His pace never faltered.

“Seto,” you managed to mewl as his grip loosened for a moment. It was the only thing you could think to say. This was only a reminder for him to tighten his grasp.

He returned your call with a throaty laugh.

“You’re so innocent,” he rasped, “it’s such a fucking turn on.” Another guttural laugh filled the room, momentarily drowning the lashing of flesh on flesh, and the squelching of your juices. “You know it suits you to be tied up like this,” he asserted, fingers of his now free hand ghosting over your breasts. He rolled his thumb over one erect nipple before his lips dove for it, tongue lapping at it, soaking it in his saliva. You whimpered, writhing. He drove a string of saliva as he parted, eyes pinning yours, his lips closed over your other breast, sucking the erect nub.

You had never at your wildest fathomed your husband and you had entertained this way. Strangely, you weren’t averse to it, finding it mortifyingly stimulating how he dominated you into complete submission, in how he held every rein to your body; at his mercy to be inflicted with pleasure how he pleased, his to be toyed with, his to be surrendered to serve his whim.

“Do you like that?” Seto grunted, injecting himself deeper into your core with each plunge than the last, his steady stokes scattering to erratic pulses. He spoke through a clenched jaw, “Do you like being a whore to your husband?”

Dear god, please forgive me, you begged in thought as you allowed your senses to indulge you completely in this carnal escapade.

There was a tight coiling torturing your lower abdomen.  
  
Your clouded eyes spoke yes before they disappeared under hooded lids. Your fingers clawed up to grapple the leather belt, needing something to hold you together against your furiously unravelling core.

He fell over you again, sweat lubricated skin gliding over each other, his defined pecs massaging your erect breasts, his head found refuge in the crook of your neck, cursing obscenities.

He slid a hand under your small body, holding you close. He began to convulse, his whole form tensing around you. His fingers dug into your neck painfully, nearly throttling you. His erection throbbed inside of you, once, then again, before a thick, creamy, hotness erupted inside of you, coating your walls. You were yet to climax, but the sensation of being filled with your husband’s seed, sticking to your every wall was immensely satisfying.

Groaning as he came inside you, he drove a handful more strokes into you with languid movements.

Reaching blindly, he released your hands of their restraints, your wrists creased with shallow trenches tainted red.

You were panting desperately you only then grew aware, and once you realized, you couldn’t catch your breath. Staring at the white ceiling you laid with your mouth agape, like a fish out of water, your husband’s unsupported weight was crushing you, blood tingling under every surface of your skin.

Believing he was spent, you expected your husband to pull out of you, fall away and perhaps even fall asleep. Except his ravenousness was far from satiated. He still ached.

“On your hands and knees,” he demanded in a breathy husk.

A moment lapsed before his words sunk in, and another before they made sense. Your limbs were limp and trembling with the remnants of hot blood.

“I won’t repeat myself,” he threatened, lifting himself on arms anchored into the sheets on either side of you.

You could feel warmth ooze out of you, colouring your inner thighs white and seeping into already sodden sheets.

Forcing your quivering limbs to contort and hold into the position you assumed he expected of you, you faced away from him, fighting to focus your doubling vision on the floral moldings on the headboard.

He spun the ends of your hair spilling over your back like velvet curtains into one hand; they were his reins. Yanking your bruising neck back by these reins, he leaned over. Your palms lifted away from the pillow slightly, only your fingertips brushing the handwoven silk. You became acutely aware of the dampness of the sweat glossing his abdominal muscles as they pressed against your curved back, the vague friction with which his erection mocked the edge of your inner lips dripping with his seed. With one hand he guided his shaft over your parted lips, drawing wet sound as he smacked the appendage against quivering flesh.

The tornado you had forgotten was threatening to rupture through your chest, the pressure swelling endlessly.

“I’m going to break you,” he chortled in your ear.

“Break me,” you pleaded. “I’m yours.”

Chilling you with a gravelly laugh, he kissed the top of your head, “That’s my woman.”

You shuddered at those words.

His erect cock gauged into you, his girth stretching your walls. The first blow broke your stance, forcing you on your elbows. Somehow this was wildly entertaining to your lover, thundering with a manic laugh as he made mad and passionate love to you from behind.

Your fingers gathered the fabric of your pillow into your fists, one hand reaching for the headboard. You were convinced you would fizzle into nothingness like a bottle of freshly opened tonic if you didn’t.

Releasing your hair he curved over you. You were enveloped in the musk of his sweat, notes of his cologne and chypre seeping through. Sweat gathered in your clavicle, before beading between your breasts. His violent grunts filled your ears. His muscular arms wrapped around you, one kneading your breasts, the other slithering between your inner thighs to pleasure your pulsing nub.

From this angle you were more vulnerable, he reached deeper. His swollen cock ground against a bundle of nerves and you forgot how to breathe.

“Seto,” you gasped, “please...there, again.” You had no idea what he had done.

Repeatedly, he massaged that delicious spot with the tip of his erection, reducing you to tears. It felt incredible, you were crying his name. There were sparks piercing your abdomen from where his fingers stroked your clit.

Every inch of your body blazed with cold flames. You hadn’t comprehended your orgasm until you were in the thick of it. Lightening rippled in your abdomen, shredding through every nerve, bliss dissolving the weight of your body to naught. The thumping of his sex into yours in transience grew faint.

In this surge of euphoria, a barrage of memories unlocked, nourishing your barren mind presently writhing in fiery chaos. At first they were disjointed visions. You mistook them for depraved hallucinations. You saw a dishevelled girl coming undone against her husband before a bathroom mirror, stars falling against universes you realized were his eyes, how he had kissed your forehead the first time you had given yourself to him, asking you to wait for him and you were overcome with this intense feeling of protection in his arms. Perhaps the most obscure recollection was the sudden association of the scent of his shirts; his scent, with what you perceived to be home. They were still scattered, small flecks filled with colour on a dark and obscured canvas, far apart from each other, but they alleviated your fears, your apprehension and most of all your inhibitions. You loved him, you remembered, all of him. You felt free to give yourself to him this way.

The sharp burning of flesh brought you back to reality.

This wasn’t him, it was obvious now, but if this was what it took to soothe him, you were willing to let him have you, over and over.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to do that,” Seto roared, bringing his palm against your ass, repeating the motion. A third strike split across your skin. You released a strangled cry, and you found long fingers forced into your open mouth. “Quiet,” he demanded. You could taste yourself vaguely on his fingers. Your stomach churned. “Suck on them,” he barked again, spanking you for your defiance. It was meant to be punishment, you understood, so then why did it feel so fucking good?

“Disobey me again,” he uttered dangerously in your ear, “and next time, it won’t be my hand.”

You were tempted to challenge him on the offer.

Instead you complied, sucking your husband’s fingers, whimpering as he palmed the stinging, and surely reddening skin he had assaulted, smearing it with the juices squelching and seeping from between your legs each time he split you in two.

His furious pace only escalated, his pants growing laborious with each rut of his hips.  
This time you recognized the mounting pleasure, threatening to splinter and give way to psychedelic euphoria.

“Seto I’m so close,” you wanted to say, but your words smothered against his fingers, the sounds instead escaping as incoherent moans.

At your incessant groaning, he removed his fingers, demanding your reasons for squirming.

“I’m - I’m coming,” you stuttered, heart palpitating erratically.

“Not yet.”

“Please,” you begged, voice pulled thin.

“I said, hold it in,” he ordered, but you failed to comprehend how one could do such a thing. Perhaps if you had been more experienced, remembered more of your times with him.

“I can’t,” you wailed, coming all over his pumping erection. Your walls clenched all around him, and he collapsed over you, swearing, flattening you against the sheets.

He was merciless as you twitched in euphoria, continuing to bring himself into you. He was nothing short of a beast. His only thrill was his own pleasure.

Your jewels were carving into your skin, sharp prongs cutting you.

Recovering from the rippling electricity burning through you, “Seto...Seto, you’re crushing me,” you winced in panic. At his indifference you struggled to escape the strain of his body, to no avail. “Seto the baby,” you pleaded.

You couldn’t be certain if this had struck a note somewhere in this hibernating conscience or if he was merely irritated by your bothersome thrashing, for you were suddenly empty, robbed of his friction.

Carelessly he twisted you, laying you supine. He was inside you again.

Two strokes scraped your inner walls before he leaned down to embrace you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, drawing him closer. Your fingers spayed across his back, drawing red wings over his skin with long nails raking his sculpted back.

“Does that feel good?” you asked him, his face buried in your neck once again, his sodden fringe pasted on your skin. “Am I making you feel good?”

He responded in an incomprehensible string of obscenities.

Your eyes falling closed, in the quiet room disturbed by the raging typhoon outside, you heard your reedy moans punctuating his strained grunts.

Turning your face to your left you planted a kiss on the side of his cheek.

“I love you so much,” you moaned. “Come for me Seto.”

With steady, agile gyrations he continued to make you his, his body rising and falling into you like ocean waves. It was euphoric torture, the friction.

His long pumps shortening to broken pulses told you he was unravelling, but so were you, faster than him.

As you came undone, your body had nothing more to give. The rush was all consuming. You called his name in a heady fit, or so you imagined.

The next sensation you grew conscious of was Seto tightening around you as if he were a constrictor. His jaw clenched, his whole form stiffening, every muscle pulled taut. You could hardly react to his impending climax before his cock spasmed violently; a monstrous groan ripping from his throat. One hand under you braced himself by your hair, the other - from how it felt - impaling your back.

He had flooded you in the next moment. Unlike his orgasm, the heat he had poured into you was less intense than before. He had nothing left to give.

Hoarsely grunting, his limbs grew limp against you once again, though your sex was still filled by his pulsating erection.

“Seto,” you murmured, concerned, “are you alright?”

You received no response. Within minutes his breaths had evened out. His face smothered against your neck you couldn’t be certain if his eyes were closed, but you assumed they were. You assumed he was asleep.

Lifting one hand that had been resting against his back, you sifted through his dampened chestnut locks, tousled and matted, lightly massaging his scalp.

You ghosted your lips over his ear.

“I’m going to mangle the witch who did this to you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if I quite captured all the complex emotions going into this but...Tell me what you think, pitchforks and all.


	43. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go Est, all the 5D’s references. XD
> 
> Enjoy!

The room smelt of old sex. There was a storm raging dully in his ear, warm skin pressed against the other, coursing blood beneath.

Where the hell was he, he tried to remember; vague recollections of strands of guests passing him in the foyer, their sillage lingering about him like curving indents in the air.

Lifting his lids threatened him with a headache, so he chose to prolong it for a moment longer. It was faint, but unmistakably present; your scent.

There was a mugginess writhing between bare skins. He opened his eyes to you in a dim room, his phone projecting silver light against the gold the lamp poured. You were completely bare under him, blue diamonds glowing amber pressing on soft skin, entangled in wisps of hair, shackling your wrist.

He was crushing you, it occurred to him, and something was crushing him; exhaustion settled into his muscles. Only, what had he engaged himself in that had been so strenuous? He could only imagine one such affair which required him to be in his present state. The baby, it struck him then, and suddenly enveloped in consternation, he began to lift himself off of you.

He was still inside you, Seto understood, and as he left you, you stirred, mumbling incoherently. He stiffened for a moment before finishing the deed. You stayed asleep.

Hovering above you, caging you between his arms, he reached one hand, fingertips dancing over your stomach with apprehension. Was the baby alright? This question sparked a chain of disjointed memory, each fragment only deepening his concern about his unborn child.

What had he done to you? He couldn’t entirely remember.

Brows gathering with dismay, he grazed the pad of his thumb over the formless, red impressions beginning to form around your neck. His keen eye observed similar discolouration circling your wrists, though to some degree they appeared more severe, your skin creased subtly. His narrowed eyes followed the silver buckle of his leather belt up to the headrest, finding it tied to the bed post.

His memory continued to elude him, agitating him more. He could only concentrate on the storm brewing behind his eyes, and the heavy ache crippling his hips and lower back.

Flattening his matted fringe against his crown with slender fingers, he suppressed a growl. His stubborn hair followed the motion of his hand as it anchored back against the sheets, cascading down.

It was hardly past two in the morning.

Severe blue eyes continued to watch over your sleeping form, desperate to summon any of the night’s exploits to conscious memory. He couldn’t recall much of anything, among those elusive memories was if you had consented. That particular detail bothered him the most, as if his conscience remembered.

If he was to be completely honest with himself, instinct afforded him an unambiguous interpretation of the night’s events, and it made his gut churn. How disgraceful, he spurned, how could he fathom such a savage possibility? Though if he indeed had, what right did he have to call himself your husband?

 

Slowly he descended into madness, convinced he had violated you. His expression creased, features darkened by revulsion. He was your guardian, your protector, or so he had self-proclaimed; what a joke.

In the far recesses of his mind, he began to relate to you on a deeper level; in that moment comprehending perfectly the dread of not being the master of your own memory; the task of being called to be responsible for actions you couldn’t recall.

You had woken up possessing nothing besides fear and suspicion for him, his azure eyes the primary object of your terror. You had shunned his touch. That was plain daylight, at his most vulnerable. And now, you would surely leave him, he had betrayed you at a most intimate moment. Why would you of all women tolerate a continued marriage to an abuser? Would you ever forgive him? How dare he even consider such a merit?  
  
Perhaps the deepest regret was how earnestly he had wished to revive the intimacy between you; suppressing his primal desires, he had wanted to make love to you in the most romantic, and purest sense. Perhaps you would have loved him again then. Selfishly, he yearned for a second chance, all the while knowing too well that one could not make a first impression twice. He had made his bed, and now he must lie in it.

The sheets twisted into balls under his fists.

How disgraceful, he repeated in his mind. How could he hold his head with any honour?

“Seto?” his wife’s gentle voice called him to reality.

His eyes drifted down from the headboard where they had been burning holes into the moulding, to yours.

“Take this off, it’s heavy,” you murmured, lips still warming up to words.

His eyebrows twitched, the slightest degree perturbed, though he complied, reaching behind your neck, and unclamping the delicate lock. Lifting the wreath of heavy jewels from your chest, he relieved you of your earrings, then your bracelet.

“Are you feeling any better?”

Your concern was displaced; undeserved.

“Did I force myself on you?” he husked, tone scraping every surface is assaulted.

He appeared more himself, you mused, though his menacing expression disagreed. His hoarse tone was trembling.

“No,” you faltered, “I asked for it, I - I wanted it.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Seto growled, “you’ve always been terrible at lying to me. If you wanted it, then what are these?” He apprehended your wrists with a firm grasp and you winced as he lifted them. “And around your neck.”

“I asked you to.”

You had never until that next instant heard your name uttered with such rage.

“I’m sorry,” you surrendered, discomposed by the register. “It’s just - people...people make mistakes, and you’re - we’re together - I liked it and you weren’t yourself. Please don’t be mad.”

Why was he projecting his fury boiling for himself on you, he wondered, he was the one at fault. In his quest for clarity he had faulted you once again.

Hesitantly he reached forward, stroking your head, intending to soothe you. You flinched at the contact, and he couldn’t be certain if his behaviour, whether in that moment or from the previous night, or your life prior to him had inspired that reaction.

“Is the baby alright?”

“I’m sure.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” you muttered.

“Did I ask for your consent? Answer honestly.”

“I don’t remember,” you couldn’t hope to lie under those sapphire galaxies.

“So that’s a no then. I didn’t. Which leads me back to my previous question, did I force myself on you, and the answer would be that I did.”

“You weren’t yourself,” you reassured softly, hoping to absolve him of his guilt.

“I was drugged,” he gruffly confirmed your suspicions. “But that’s no excuse. What happened isn’t something trivial. Don’t try to brush it off like it is. It’s unforgivable. What I did to you was a crime. If you’re having second thoughts about this relationship...I understand. I’ve failed you.”

“You’re being harsh on yourself.”

“It’s an act which requires such.”

“Too harsh.”

“Don’t patronize me,” he scoffed.

Swallowing your lips you considered for a moment, what would afford him the greatest comfort?  
  
“What you witnessed of me last night was not how I would ever treat you,” he asserted. “I...honour you,” he swore solemnly; he appeared to chose his words with a great deal of care, “as my wife and I ask that you won’t form any judgement of me based on my shameful display. I don’t want you to start running from me again because of it.”

His sincerity was heart wrenching. You could tell now that it was sincerity.

“Come here,” you cooed, arms circling his neck. He lowered himself tensely into you, before falling against the sheets to your side, drawing you into his embrace. “You know, you kissed my forehead before you passed out.” You were drawing from your new ‘wealth’ of knowledge, if you call it that, your four or five recollections.

“Did I?” his chest rumbled against your back.

You hummed, hardly believing a little white lie would be detrimental to the situation.

“In some ways,” you added, “I trust you more now, for holding out, and coming to me.”

“Don’t try to romanticize the situation with playground eyes. What I did to you was a disgrace.”

“And you’ve already apologized for it,” you reminded.

Reaching behind him, suddenly robbing you of his arm draping your waist, he folded the comforter over the both of you.

“It’s not something an apology can fix,” he intimidatingly disagreed. “We are not talking about hurt feelings.”

You weren’t ignorant to the severity of what had transpired, no were you indifferent to it. You just didn’t feel there was any more you could take from him besides his sincerity. What was done couldn’t be undone, and it felt cruel to hold him accountable for something he wasn’t wholly responsible for.

“Seto -”

“Try as I may,” he interrupted, “I could never in my lifetime hope to make up for last night. I will spend my entire life - ”  
  
“Seto I love you...” you persisted, “so much.”

The confession frightened him, at first it made no sense. He had always loved you more - infinitely more he was convinced - and you were constantly on the run, so this kindness, this compassion and tender affection was disconcerting to the young president. A passing thought; if people changed too fast, they died, he had read somewhere. He had accepted the unrequited affection as definitive, settled, because this was as good as it would get, lowered his expectations and now, you were treating him as if he were human; forgiving him without proper apology. It was a rare occasion, and he didn’t think it should happen. There was a price to be paid for everything; always a price. And he had committed a grave sin; a moral crime.

“-Making this up to - what ?”

“I said I love you.” You turned in his embrace, resting a palm on his cheek, a soft smile lifting your lips, “so much. So so much that it’s driving me mad. I missed you.”

“Missed me?”

You made less sense to him by the second.

“Yes. We’re fine, our baby is fine. You truly are my better half.”

Once again, you had beat him to those words. It was clearly the other way around. You were his better half.

He grew suspicious of your all-knowing smile.

“Have you remembered something?”

“Not much, just how much I love you.” You nuzzled against his chest, giggling in a tone he felt lifted everything off its feet.

“Tell me exactly what you remember. I need to know everything,” he demanded.

“Draw us both a warm bath and I’ll tell you?”

He was relieved, so you didn’t remember everything.

...

You sat against his chest in the marble tub, the warm water embracing your shoulders. Having been carried there, it was then you realized how sore your legs were.

“Now,” he said, “exactly what did you remember?” Tension was pulling his voice taut, you could tell. Understandably so, you couldn’t imagine how many burdens weighed on his mind.

You hesitated.

“...I...didn’t realize _that’s_ what you liked,” you declared innocently, a demure veil to your countenance. To some extent you appeared scandalized. “You...really taught me a lot about those kinds of things last night.”

“What are you talking about?” He was confused, and subsequently, the emotion translated to crossness. Seto Kaiba didn’t appreciate many things, possessing a limited tolerance most things in the world, two of which were; being left in the dark about matters, and being taunted. You were presently daring both things.

“Oh, I just...didn’t realize you liked that much submission in bed, and I didn’t know belts could be used like _that_.”

“Like what?” your husband all but barked.

“To tie me up.”

“I did what?” he growled, the randomly tied belt suddenly making sense to him.

Of course, he growled in his mind, belts didn’t tie themselves to bed posts that way. What the hell had he done?

You turned on your side, continuing to lean against him.

“I didn’t realize that’s what you were into.” He watched you with careful eyes, distrustful of your intentions. Craning your neck up you whispered pleadingly in his ear, “choke me...master.”

“What?” his voice thundered against the walls, eyes narrowing. You couldn’t discern whether the rose spilling onto his cheeks were a symptom of your teasing or the hot steam, though arguably the latter.

There was a familiar ache in his groin.

What on earth had he done to his impressionable, young wife? How much had he corrupted your innocent mind?

“I also didn’t know motorcycles couldn’t be used like _that_ ,” you shyly apprised, lips pressed between your teeth, twisting an innocent revelation he had made to you in his sleep of how he would some day soon revolutionize how Duel Monsters were played, combining his love for the card game as well as motorcycles.

Seto was mortified. How much of the dark depths of his fantasies which he held towards you had he revealed, or worse, acted on? And amongst them, did he even hold a fantasy involving you and a motorcycle? On the front seat of a car moving at some ridiculous speed he could imagine, but a motorcycle?

“I was drugged,” he defended, caught in an awkward space between aroused and embarrassed.

“Really? Because I have this memory of you spanking me in front of that mirror.”

He just about choked on his own saliva, reaching for the faucet to drown out the stiff tension under the guise of warming the water. While he for the greater part appeared composed to you, even his slight perturbation was encouraging.

Your next words however forced him off his precipice, and it pushed him to place himself back on assault. It was after all, what he knew best.

“I liked it,” you taunted him, “and I look forward to you teaching more.”

“Really?” he purred darkly in your ear from above, voice dripping with seduction, and though it remained hardly above a whisper, it was audible against the gush of water. “Would you like your master to show how to please him in a bathtub?”

It had taken a lapsed moment for the words to arrange themselves in a sensible formation in your head. And when it did, a high-pitched squeal tore through the bathroom.

“Should I?” He raised an eyebrow. You could feel him against your back, discernibly.

“I was joking,” you pressed your lips together, hanging your head.

“Pick on someone your own size,” he teased, chuckling lowly. “Now, memories, what do you remember?”

“Well..besides the affair in front of the mirror -”

“Besides that,” he growled.

“Did you...propose to me under a meteor shower? Wait, no,” you corrected yourself. His was holding his breath, unbeknownst to even himself. “That can’t be right, there were two rings...but we didn’t have a wedding yet...”

“We exchanged our wedding bands,” Seto told you. “I wanted to...”

“Exchange them in private,” you enthusiastically completed his sentence, memory seeping back into conscious thought.

He was exulted, though it wouldn’t reign over his usually stoic countenance.

“Is that all?”

“Your shirts smell like home,” you blurted before considering your words.

“My what?” he chortled.

“Your shirts...” you stuttered. “So I knew you would never hurt me, even when I thought you would eat me alive. I just seemed to know...never mind. I’ll keep my ramblings to myself.”

“I rather you didn’t.” He kissed your temple, embracing you desperately. “Tell me everything.”

“That’s all I remember.”

“No,” he sighed, “your ramblings.”

“Oh.”

The conversation rested for a while there, and you turned away from him once again. Folding your legs, knees breaking the water, you massaged your numb muscles writhing in your thighs.

A pair of well-built arms reached from either side of you, removing your hands, and replacing them with much larger, stronger ones. He kissed your ear from behind.  
  
“Does that feel good, or am I hurting you?”

His fingers felt better than sex in that moment.

“No,” you mewled, “you feel amazing.”

Chuckling, he continued.

“I love you,” he professed in a raspy whisper. “I wanted to tell you, that you were my better half.”

The words were intoxicating, in the best way possible.

You turned to lean against him on your side again.

“You have no idea how long I waited to here those words.”

“I think I’m the one who waited,” Seto disagreed.

“I’m so happy I could literally die.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” he berated you, tone becoming somber.

The age difference drastically shone through in how he transformed from being your lover and your life companion to being someone who could offer you guidance and advise all in within the same conversation. And perhaps that’s what a companion was, maybe, being a lover, companion and guardian weren’t all exclusive of each other.

“Do you have any idea who drugged you?” you asked him after a while.

“I do.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he asserted, intent to investigate without risking you further harm. “Do you?”

“No,” you lied. You didn’t wish to disclose the bet you had made with his assistant, fearing it may anger, or worse still disappoint him. Had you been in his position, you would be.

Pressuring him to answer, if he would even yield to your persistence, would only risk you having to reveal your hand, and that could never happen.  


 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think of her reaction :)


	44. The Price Of Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was almost called: Don’t Read This. And with good reason too. Trigger warning, deals with subjects of suicide. You’re all going to hate me for this. So as consolation, for anyone who hasn’t seen/ read it yet, there is a new year’s fic up as a part of the series. Go read it if you haven’t already. If you have. Well, you’re stuck with this. Kill me next chapter. Please.

On the edge of the bed you sat in a state of disquietude; where he had left you. He was pacing in front of you, his dark navy robe billowing behind him; it followed him as he turned, as he reached the nightstand, and when he spun on his heel, having reached the footboard of the bed. His face was twisted with consternation, his arms bound behind him. His wet hair fell carelessly, the ends sharpened to dampened spikes.

It was three thirty-four on a Saturday morning.

He was expecting someone. You didn’t know.

“Seto, come here for a second.” Nothing. “Seto,” you called again, reaching your arm towards him; he was just out of reach, his robe taunting your fingertips. You repeated his name a third time, a discernible crack to your tone.

This time you were afforded a view of his face over his tense shoulders; his feet followed, stalking to stand in front of you.

“What is it?”

You reached forward for his hand.

“That’s what I wanted to ask you,” you murmured, stroking the back of his hand with your thumb, eyes tracing his long fingers.

“It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with.” Creases framed his eyes.

“Why do you treat me like I’m your child?” It was not a confrontation. “I’m a lot younger than you, yes, but I know - ”

A knock deprived you of his attention. Stealing his hand away from yours, he marched purposefully to the door.

At three on a Sunday morning, you were curious to see which of the maid staff possessed a death wish to intrude upon Seto Kaiba’s personal quarters.

Behind the door stood a greying gentleman in a lab coat, his thinning hair and balding patch perhaps aging him prematurely, though his creasing forehand was also doing him a disservice. In his hand he held an imposing, unusually broad, metallic briefcase; it almost qualified to be regarded a suitcase.

“I was expecting you half an hour ago,” your husband admonished.

“Yes, well,” the man stuttered, “when you...when you called Mr. Kaiba, I was asleep.”

“I didn’t realize I cared for your excuses.”

“Of course not sir, my apologies.” His eyes drifted surreptitiously past your husband to you; hands nestled between your thighs, your rose gold robe pouring over slouched shoulders.

“Do you plan to stand there or are you still asleep?”

The inquiry seem to shock the man into animation. Receiving this as an invitation to enter the room, he walked past Seto, a demure woman who gave the impression to you of being a nurse with her clothing followed, apparently having stood unseen behind the doctor’s stunted frame.  
The silver briefcase was set down on the coffee table.

With a handful of strides Seto traversed the distance to the bed.

“Can you walk?”

“If you get me my crutches.”

“I’m taking that as a no,” he muttered, sweeping you into his arms. You clung to his shirt, embarrassment flooding your cheeks crimson and burning your ears.

He sat you beside him on the larger settee.

Before you on the coffee table, the opened briefcase revealed to you it’s contents neatly arranged into levels, from the instruments you could discern; disinfecting agents, a collection of sealed, narrow, glass vials, injection needles secured in plastic packages and a disposal vessel for biohazardous waste.

Rolling up his sleeves Seto presented the nurse his arm, marked with raised veins running the course of its length. He clenched his fist; not that he needed to. You could feel nausea ravage your throat as she rubbed the alcohol doused cotton over the fold of his arm; whether it was provoked by the bitter fumes of the disinfectant, the thought of a pierced vein, or your morning sickness, you couldn’t be certain.

“As you know Mr. Kaiba... the blood samples...they...need to be returned to the lab to have them analyzed accurately,” the doctor informed with apprehension, fully expecting a barrage of insults.

Without sparing a glance in his direction, Seto offered a nod of acknowledgement, eyes meticulously following the young nurse’s hands.

A stifled squeal escaped your swallowed lips as she drove the needle into his vein, your face contorting with vicarious pain, your arm clamped his other.

His gaze shifted over his shoulder to you, a smirk curling his lip.

“Don’t look if it bothers you,” he husked, “it’s not your arm.”

As you eyes were inevitably drawn to his blood charging into the narrow tube, filling it red before trickling into the vial, you found yourself transfixed. It was difficult to swallow the strong urge to relieve your churning stomach. You imagined tasting iron on your tongue.

A forceful grip lacing your fingers drew your attention to his lap, then promptly to stormy orbs, where they stayed captivated; a prisoner of his commanding gaze.

Upon their departure, Seto faced you with disturbed eyes.

“You need an ultrasound,” he insisted.

“I’m fine.”

“I wasn’t suggesting it.”

“Seto, last night...you were...really...” you paused, biting your lower lip, “but not to the extent of causing a miscarriage. I feel fine.”

His eyes narrowing, he sneered, “Is the baby a joke to you? Your pregnancy isn’t normal.”

“I think sometimes you need to trust a woman’s intuition.”

“When you remember your intuition - ” Having heard his own words he halted, allowing a thoughtful pause. “I’m sorry.”

Maybe it was the hormones, or due to the scathing nature of the remark, tears welled.

“Fine,” he conceded, “instead if something feels out of place, you tell me, immediately, do you understand?”

You nodded, sniffling.

“Stop that,” he ordered. “I misspoke, I said I apologize, now stop that.” He sighed, frustrated. “I have business to take care of this morning, so I can’t stay. Tell me what I have to do make you stop because I can’t leave you crying like this.”

“You’re leaving me?” Your sobs escalated.

“It’s too early for this,” Seto reasoned, his jaw clenched. “The earlier I leave, the sooner it will be dealt with.”

“What business could you possibly have at four a.m. on a Saturday?” you demanded, trembling.

“Your hormones are really testing me,” he muttered under his breath. “As I’ve said before, It’s nothing for you to concern yourself with.”

You wouldn’t press him further for answers.

...

He had left promptly following breakfast around late seven; he hadn’t helped himself to any, merely monitoring that you did. A grey drizzle was sweeping the front garden, strewn with magnolia petals the previous night’s storm had stolen from their branches.

Unbeknownst to you, a new storm was brewing, one of a different genre; the dramatic, relationship dissolving, soul shattering variety.

He planned to return before lunch, Seto had said, before ducking into the backseat of a Rolls Royce limo. You wondered where his presence was required, dressed like the reaper so early on a weekend; an ensemble of a black trench over a black suit, waistcoat and tie. To his credit, he would make an arrestingly striking reaper, but you digress

Following the previous night’s depraved escapade, your condition had regressed, and you found a familiar pair of apparatus thrust under your arms. It was a miserable coupling of an overly-tender sensation gnawing at your pelvis, crippling your lower abdomen every so often at the most unexpected of movements with a feeling akin to shards of glass scraping your walls, and paralyzingly numbness, convincing you with its severity that your thighs were filled entirely of sand, and without one nerve ending.

As you crossed the foyer following your husband’s departure, the rubber soles of the crutches clacked against the marble tiles. It served the purpose of an analogous tracker; you might as well have had a silver bell tied around you neck like one of your cats, anyone could trace you from the other end of the manor.

You had intended to make him lunch, at least, that had been your intention entering the kitchen; much to the dismay of the kitchen staff. However, under the collective strain of the previous day’s exhaustion, and the previous night’s ravaging, you settled instead to instruct.

Settling into one of the barstools, the morning was spent overlooking the kitchen staff. Your script you had had the butler fetch was forgotten following leafing through a few pages, once Suki decided the papers were offensive reading material and made a better cushion and scratch post.

The kitten’s love affair with your script had been fleeting however, and she soon found comfort on a barstool beside you. Liberated from the meddling feline, you requested for a cutting board to be placed in front of you on the island, wanting to contribute somehow towards lunch preparations.

...

“Where is she?” Seto’s chilling voice terrorized the entrance hall, assaulting every human, door, wall and window it scraped, just out of your earshot. The front doors slammed behind him. He shed his coat, casting it across the lobby, and sending a young butler diving for it.

With eyes of a raging bull, he stormed through the halls, while loosening his tie. His knuckles burned white around the edges of his tablet. The floor trembled with each purposeful stride. He was a shuddersome sight to behold.

He found you in the kitchen.

You turned your head in time to find a tablet propelled at you. It pitched the cutting board off the island as if they were wooden strikers on a carrom board; chives and leeks littering the floor like confetti. Your agitated kitten leapt off the stool, escaping the chaos, fur bristled.

Cold air swept the kitchen. Horror rendered the servants into motionless sculptures.

The compulsion to demand him for an explanation was subdued; strangled in your throat once you met his eyes; they could swallow universes you were convinced. You were afraid.

“What the hell is this?” He violently gestured towards the tablet.

Your eyes fell over the dim screen of the tablet which had slid past you, dangerously close to following the same fate as the cutting board. Gently tapping the screen back to life with trembling fingertips, you appraised its contents.

An article; though you didn’t possess the composure to analyze the mess of words sprawled in a compact font. It was the grainy picture under the scandalous headline which arrested your vision. A picture, likely sourced from a surveillance camera, of a young man who suspiciously resembled Kaoru Hidehira and a woman the article was claiming to be you. The time stamp dated the photograph to late evening of early spring. Under overexposed amber light, you were walking in his embrace.

“I checked,” he asserted, “you came came home past midnight that night.”

There was a boulder in your gut. You couldn’t defend what you didn’t remember. “I wouldn’t,” you snivelled.

“You were always looking for a way out of this marriage.”

His insecurities had mounted, and they were boiling over the edge of his sanity. He was a beast frothing at the mouth, unable to summon a shred of composure in the face of betrayal. You had burrowed too far into him to be severed, but sever you he must. Infidelity he couldn’t forgive, though still, still he wanted an explanation. Why did he still feel entitled to you?

He grappled your wrist, standing before you, pulling your appendage towards him. “Then where were you that night?”

“I don’t - how could I remember?” you winced.

“Well try harder!” he demanded. “I’m sick of that excuse.”

“Seto I wouldn’t,” you repeated, lips quivering. Tears welled and spilled.

“Did you or didn’t you?” he raged.

“Please, please calm down, it’s not good for the baby.”

He scoffed, a hair-raising laughter splitting the atmosphere of the kitchen pulled taut. “You’re depraved!”

“Yes!” Something finally ruptured, something scorching and bitter, it bled all over. “I’m the one who forced my pregnant wife into submission last night and had my way with her until she almost had a miscarriage! I’m the one who begged her for her forgiveness all morning, only to come back and accuse her of infidelity. I won’t use the word but you know exactly what you did to me last night. I could sue you for assault!”

He stiffened at those words, shoulders growing tense. He didn’t care for your threat, but the reminder of his moral transgression penetrated his madness, harrowing him. He had never really forgotten, only suppressed by severe indignation.

“No, I can’t remember what I was doing that night,” you screamed, “but I really fucking hope I slept with him. You deserve it.”

“And this what you have to say for yourself?” His words were so low they grated the floor tiles. If he was honest with himself, which he rarely was, he was at a loss for words. He did deserve it.

It was mortifying, you could feel your skin crawl with humiliation, hair raised like electric needles against your skin. Their bodies were paralyzed; transfixed, but their eyes still saw; ears heard. You were already a whore in their rumours, this would only solidly the whispers exchanged in un-dusted corners of the mansion. This would be permission to speak louder; their master had given them that freedom.

“Get out,” you hissed.

“What?”

“Get out,” your voice grew to a roar, “get out or I will!”

No one had expected him to obey, yourself included. It made no sense as you watched his receding form. You had demanded he leave his own house, and he had complied.

Terror gripped on every nerve in his absence. In his absence you comprehend what that scorching bitterness filling you was; it was fear. It was the paralyzing fear of being left; of becoming the abandoned woman, the unwanted woman.

“What are you staring at?” you snarled through tears as you gathered your crutches, in desperate need for a hole to find sanctuary in.

...

Suppressing the urge to purge had been a losing battle, and you deprived yourself of lunch. By late afternoon, your reflux was crippling. This debilitating pain gouging your diaphragm, in combination with the ache pulsing on your lower half, you were descending into your own madness.

Slouched against the footboard on the cold marble, your fingernails were torn to nubs.

Every single phone call to you husband had been unanswered, and at the end of each ignored attempt, his voice mail heard another pleading voice mail begging for his forgiveness.

The pain was intolerable. You crawled over the bed to his nightstand. Rummaging his immaculately organized drawer, you allowed yourself the relief of your reflux medication. Shaking the brown-glassed bottle of cherry tonic, you put the neck of the bottle to your lips, swallowing the concoction Seto had convinced you was anti-acid in large gulps.

The recommended dose for the particular cough syrup was ten millilitres.

In the state of delirium which ensued, the messages left for your husband grew increasingly unhinged.

Writhing in unrelenting pain, stumbling into the bathroom, you contemplated in a hallucinatory state on resorting to your pain medication prescribed by your physical therapists. What was the dosage, you questioned your reflection, pouring a handful of white pills onto your palm. Some white tablets sieved through your fingers, sprinkling like snow over the bathroom tiles.

You needed a bath.

...

Leaving his meeting with the chief prosecutor of Domino, Seto retrieved his phone from the pocket of his slacks, in the backseat of his limo. He could hardly recount the conversations he had exchanged during his meeting; his thoughts invaded by all of you.

Observing the forty-nine missed phone calls and thirty-six voice messages you had left him, he transcended from his previous condition of consternation into hysteria. He began immediately to expect the worst.

  
“Seto...I - I’m so sorry,” he heard you sob. “Please come back...please. Call me back.”

“I didn’t mean it when I asked you to leave...You didn’t hurt me last night, I was just...I - I’ll be good. Please call me back.”

He skipped ahead to the latest message, left minutes ago. Your voice was discernibly addled; words disjointed.

“Seto,” you slurred, “I would rather die without you. You know that? I’d rather throw myself over the balcony and just - ”

He wouldn’t listen to the end of that. “I don’t care how many red lights you run, or how many people you run over,” he commanded the chauffeur, “get me home, now!”

He searched for clarity, desperate to find out how you had descended to the point of threatening suicide. In a previous message you were asking him about a dosage for acetaminophen. He was losing his mind.

...

Tearing into the bedroom, the curtains were tangling and untangling with the wind. There was a faint smell of magnolia in the air. He raced for the balcony, feet halting past the bathroom at the sound of burbling water.

He entered the bathroom; the floor strewn with white pills, their orange-tinted bottle shattered and empty against the bathtub, under your limply hanging arm.

The water was running, dancing scarlet against the edge of the tub, draining into the overflow pipe.

The world before him was falling; trembling, as he took cautious steps to face you. Your head fallen to the ceiling, your other arm against the edge, your expression was serene, in a white silk dress.

Was this the price?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now accepting all pitchfork throws.


	45. Solace In Misery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now...you may all kill me. I allow it.

Honey sunlight trickled through the six-foot tall, blooming lupins colouring the valley blush and violet. They were the subjects of the wind, bowing their crowned heads in changing directions. You had seen it in a postcard you thought, this very shore. You were lying on dry grass; it was late summer. You were barefooted in a white cotton dress, your head resting on his shoulder. The sleeves of his dark, fitted cardigan were rolled up, the strap of his watch was pressed against your back, though not uncomfortably so. Beyond the tips of your outstretched feet, waves washed against a shallow bank in the distance, continuing to mould the smooth-edged pebbles. The clear water reflected the cornflower blue sky, only tainted with rags of broken cloud. It was a place too otherworldly to exist outside a postcard, and yet it was deceivingly tangible.

The flailing newborn cradled between you and Seto had seized his pinky with inconceivably small fingers. Indicolite peered into themselves, a content chuckle escaping her, the wind stealing her laughter which burbled like a brook at the crack of spring.

The laughter echoed, from the far skirts of the rocky shore.

“Make sure the girls don’t go too far,” you were telling your husband.

He called them by names which eluded your ear. “Stay where I can see you,” Seto advised the twins. “They’re hardly two, they won’t make it very far either way.”

“No but they’ll come back with skinned knees.”

His command was met with insubordination; receiving criticism for how their daddy no longer played with them, the title of favourite apparently having fallen away to their youngest sister.

“They’re not going to like hearing they’re getting another sister,” you murmured against his lips.

“You don’t know if it’s a girl.”

“Trust me Seto, all you’re getting are daughters.”

A velvet laugh ripped from his throat, sweeping under your skin and leaving your hair raised on their edges.

You were so incandescently happy. It was frightening.

...

“Will there be complications?” It was still his voice, wrung with desperation. The lupins had withered, phosphenes were spinning against darkness, their sillage tails of neon green and silver. You were alone, surrounded by voices.

“The overdose wasn’t potent enough to be life threatening to an adult,” the man paused, or rather, faltered, “as for the - ”

“I understand,” Seto acknowledged ominously, interrupting. “Will she conceive again?”

“If her health improves, I see no reason why not. If I may say Mr. Kaiba, I ask you to see this as a blessing. The chances of Mrs. Kaiba delivering a healthy child and surviving the strain herself in her current state would have been impossible. Her health was no where near where it should have been for an expecting mother. If I dare ask, was it planned?”

“Not exactly, no.”

There was a thoughtful pause, or maybe it was hesitation.

“I see.”

...

The room didn’t smell of magnolia, and the rustle of lupins had disappeared. Fingers were tap dancing against a key board, your addled mind interpreted. A ceaseless beeping drilled your tympanum to the tune of an arcade game.

The mouldings nestled between the walls and ceiling had disappeared; this wasn’t your bedroom.

“Seto,” your brittle voice threatened to disappear. You reached a pierced arm draining a saline bag to him; fingertips brushing air.

Wolves’s eyes diverted from the grainy azure light flickering like cold flames against his face. They met yours with concealed wretchedness.

“I love you,” were your first words which manifested in open air. They had been the last on your tongue before your dream had dissolved.

“If you love me,” your husband contested, laughing cynically, “why did you try to take your own life?” His brows drew together under a dishevelled fringe. “After all that I’ve done to keep you alive,” he cursed, “was being with me that difficult for you?” His slender fingers tangled in his cascading fringe, threading it. He folded his laptop screen, the light extinguished under it. “And you have the audacity to mock me with your love?” His voice steadily escalated to a thunderous roar. Your thoughts were yet to recover from their state of disorientation to counter him. “Do you want to see me die?” His voice then plunged to a whisper, “Do you not see how much I need you?”

You must have misheard; an auditory hallucination, after all, just a moment ago, your mind had been positive your heart monitor was playing the tune to pac-man.

“Seto...Take my own life?” You had never learned the words to disprove such a wild accusation. Your body was heavier than you last recalled as you propped it against the headboard. “Why on earth would I?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out, though for your information, it takes more than half a bottle of cough syrup and pain medication to kill yourself.”

“What gave you the impression?” you begged. “Cough syrup!?”

“Your chain of messages, threatening to throw yourself off the balcony if I didn’t come running, finding you unconscious in the bathtub, with your wrist cut open.”

You couldn’t recall ever leaving him such a message, nor could you make much sense of why he believed you had consumed cough syrup while you were pregnant.

“I was taking a bath - ”

“You were taking a bath,” he repeated flatly with unrestrained derision, “in a Chanel dress?”

That was a good question.

“When did I drink cough syrup?” You instead returned with your own. “Why am I in the hospital?”

“Because you tried to kill yourself,” he drawled, a bland, matter-of-fact tone about his words. It was condescending, and yet also as if he were attempting to communicate with a psychiatric patient prone to mental collapse. He spoked in a hush, his intonations calculated, and enunciation slow and languid. “The medicine you took from my drawer, what did you think it was?”

“It was the anti-acid you gave me.”

“Christ,” he swore, pinching the bridge of his nose. Suddenly the burden of the situation weighed infinitely heavier on his shoulders.

Unaware of your husband’s epiphany, you continued, “I never tried to take my own life. All I wanted was for you to come back.”

“So this was all just a pathetic bid for my affection? Why did you cut your wrists?”

“Yes! I mean, no, what? Cut my - ” Lifting the draped sleeve at the allegation, you discovered stained gauze binding your forearm. “- Oh, that’s going to scar,” you whined.

“If you cared so much, why did you do it?” Seto snarled.

“I didn’t! There must be some mistake. The last I remember, I just wanted my reflux to calm down so I took my meds and then my legs were sore so I wanted pills but I didn’t know my dose so I - I don’t remember...”

Sighing he clarified, “What you took wasn’t anti-acid, it was cough medication.”

“But you always gave it to me when...when I had trouble sleeping,” you cried out in realization. “You drugged me when I was being difficult.”

“You make it sound worse than it is,” he asserted.

“Seto most cough syrups are opioids and highly addictive...I’m pregnant - ”

“I always gave you a safe dose.”

“What did you mean by will she conceive again?” your lips quivered at the remembrance. “Where’s my baby?”

He stowed the laptop on the bed side table, expression hardening.

He shifted from his chair to sit beside you on the bed.

“You mean everything to me,” he husked in your ear.

“Tell me what’s happened,” you demanded, increasingly more agitated at the obscurity in his confession.

“The baby is gone,” he whispered, pulling you into him, and surrounding your small frame in his embrace.

“No!” a shrill scream disturbed the still room. “No,” you repeated, fists pounding his chest, “bring her back, bring her back, you can’t do this.”

He spoke your name with the most patience and compassion you had heard in his voice.

“Was it because you think I cheated? Did you think it wasn’t yours? Is that why you did it?” you choked. You were already speaking in past tense. “Because if I loved you as half as much as I do now then, no, a tenth as much, I would never have done that to you. You’re all I have.” Those last words had been squeezed out of you with such agony that it may as well have drawn blood; they tormented him.

“It was mine,” he rasped, palm soothing your back, “I know. I swear to you my intention wasn’t this.”

“All I ever wanted was a family,” you wept, “but you took my baby away from me. How could you, you were the father!”

“I’m sorry.” You deserved more than his worthless apology, he knew.

Your convulsions grew violent, wails piercing the cold air of the hospital room.

He began to hush you, his chin against your crown, palm circling your back.

He had always been a man of a few words, more machine than man, and in every function mechanical, but he would force himself to speak here; he had broken the woman he loved.

“You’re very young,” Seto began over your sobs, “giving me children shouldn’t be your priority. Having children shouldn’t be. This is your youth, learn to be selfish. When you’re older, and your health recovers, you can give me as many as you want. I want to raise them with you, you need to be around for that. This isn’t the time. Be my bride first, then the mother of my children. I never cared for tradition and societal conceptions, but I want you to make you a Kaiba in the world’s eye with honour.”

Your cries wouldn’t ease.

“What are you afraid of?” he grunted. “Nothing worth having comes easy, I suppose it’s no different with children. Stop this, save your energy so we can try again.”

You couldn’t be certain when the separation between sleep and reality had blurred, and when your husband’s words had faded into the rise and fall of his deep breaths.

...

You roused to the cries of an infant. You were in your bedroom, surrounded by his scent, suffocating against his shirt.

“Get some sleep,” his voice was a register lower than it usually was as he parted from you. “I’ll check on her.”

“She’s probably hungry.” You made after him, reluctantly pulling away from the warmth of the sheets.

Ambling around the bed he stood over the white crib. “She’s not hungry,” he observed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He leaned down, nestling the newborn into his arms. “Go back to sleep.”

Smiling, you obeyed, closing your eyes.

The cries of the infant were unrelenting. You were still surrounded by his scent, suffocating against his shirt, only, you had woken up to a dystopian reality. Your eyes were dull with loss as they blurred against his chest. He had fallen asleep holding you, his slender frame bent awkwardly against the headboard.

You had insinuated unspeakable things, skirting the idea that he had instigated the miscarriage. Perhaps you had even declared it outright. Better than anyone, you should have understood the heart of a parent who had lost a child, but you were selfish, convinced once again that only you were capable of grieving. In some desolate recess of your mind, you dared to believe he didn’t possess the right to.

To share a life, that is, companionship, you reminded yourself then, was an incredible thing, and you of all people, who had lived in its absence, needed to honour and appreciate it.

The cries of an infant penetrated the heavy door, and it beckoned you like a siren’s song. So around the curve of the corridor you followed, away from the clutches of your sleeping husband and past the distracted guards, slipping into the enigma of winding hallways.

Crutches fixed under your arms, you favoured your left over your wounded right arm, weaving between the congestion of stretchers and wheel chairs.

With the sharp edges of your memory had disappeared your sense of identity; in what remained, you weren’t a national treasure, and so you saw no reason to hide. In the face of chaos and distress, no one saw reason to recognize you, not that you were the last thing they expected here; in a busy corridor of a hospital, there simply was no time.

The hallway bends and the lights dim; not many venture into its obscurity. At the end of it, where the hallways bends again, there stood a figure, dressed in a mint green maternity gown. She paid you no mind as you limped to stand beside her, her vision gazing straight into the glass window on the sickly green wall, into a room bathed in soft, gold light, illuminating perfect rows of glass cubes, each holding newborns swaddled in blue and blush.

At first she said nothing. Your cascading hair framed your face as if they were the wings of a bonnet; she couldn’t see you, and perhaps it was this anonymity which invited her to speak.

“Which one is yours?” Past her lob which swept her shoulders, you couldn’t discern her features either. “Mine is the second from the left, on the third row from the window.” Why was a new mother’s voice tainted with such desolation, you wondered.

“I lost mine,” you heard yourself say, “for the second time.”

You could sense the tension the words had released, she stiffened.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“Congratulations,” you husked, following a short pause.

“Actually,” she faltered, “I’m thinking of giving her up for adoption.” Surreptitiously you focused your gaze on her, surprised, observing how the contours of her face moved under her short curtain of hair. Her trembling fingertips reached gingerly forward, resting on the glass. “I want to keep her so badly.”

“Why can’t you?” You couldn’t find it in you to sympathize. It was as if she was jeering at you.

“There’s no father,” she apprised, “and my family wants nothing to do with me. I had to drop-out of college to have her. I have no income to raise her on or a family name to give her.”

In that moment you felt ignorant, misjudgement based on assumption your greatest transgression.

“Yours is as valid as any man’s, certainly more than a man who doesn’t possess the dignity to take responsibility. Give her your last name.” You allowed a thoughtful pause. “Believe me when I say society will always find something to destroy you over. It’s at the base of its construct. I can’t tell you to not give her up for adoption, but there’s no shame in giving her your name.”

Yours were the words of a stranger, and so they were comforting, because they were given without partial opinion or judgement. And conversely, because she was a stranger, you could tell her, the way one would told the sea; it would listen and disappear, a perfect confidant.

“Do you still want children?” Well that certainly stung.

“I do,” you murmured.

“And will you give them your name?” She spoke with such certainty of a future for you with children that it alleviated some of the feelings of devastation, replacing it with hope. In your interpretation of her words, you had not paid attention to the content of the question.

“What?”

“Not to be rude, but I was asking if there was a father.”

“There is.”

“I see.”

“I don’t think it’s possible for them to not carry my husband’s name, he wouldn’t allow it, but that doesn’t mean they can’t have both our names.”

“That’s very brave of you,” she admired.

Then her head turned, and her jaw fell agape. Suddenly, you weren’t a stranger.

“So - so the father is Seto Kaiba then,” she gasped. Reverence bloomed on her face.

Shit.

For the first time you met her; peach skin and coal eyes, standing no taller than five foot one in hospital slippers.

“It was,” you confessed, “I mean, it is - will be, hopefully.”

She allowed a Sisyphean smile. “I had no idea you wanted children - or that you were married, I mean you’re you and - I guess we forget to humanize idols. It’s difficult to imagine your life ever being difficult.”

“Life is difficult on any podium of privilege,” you said, “everyone deals with loss and hardship. I’m just now starting to realize that sometimes it’s a little more bearable when privilege eases the burden. That being said, if you live diligently enough, I’ve learned, life sometimes looks kindly on you. I wasn’t always here.”

“You’re kinder than I imagined,” she praised.

“I think the fact that you’re able to find good in others at a time like this says more about you than me.”

“Thank you,” she mumbled, “for been here for me at a time people I’ve known my whole life wasn’t.”

Tears burned in your eyes; they stung your nose. You brought one palm to clasp your face as silent tears welled and wet your cheeks. You shook your head.

“I’ve made up my mind to keep her,” she declared. “I’m going to live diligently, and raise her to be a young woman who could be like you...yeah...” She seemed to settle on that aspiration, making up her mind. “I’m going raise her to be like you.

“Would you like to come in and hold her?”

“Very much,’’ you sniffled, nodding.

Walking up to the door beside the viewing window she knocked. To the midwife who met her she presented her identification bracelet, informing that she would like to hold her newborn.

“No visitors,” the portly woman grunted, standing guard as if some fairytale toll collector, her cap flaring behind her mess of unruly, ashy locks.

You lifted your head and it was amusing to watch her composure abandon its post.

“I suppose I can make exception,” she stuttered, standing aside.

“I can bring her out into the hallway, if you don’t mind,” the young woman you had unintentionally befriended offered as she observed you were reluctant to cross the threshold.

“If you don’t mind.”

You had never liked children, babies especially you had invested no interest in and would have gone so far as to say that you found them to be nuisances. These creatures whose appeal which has always eluded you, how had they become such an obsession? She was harrowing to you in that moment, you would be honest, swaddled in periwinkle pink; a cruel reminder of a wound still fresh. It was in that moment however, holding a flesh and blood newborn, that the possibility of your own felt, for the first time, tangible.

You sat on the metal bench lining the cold hallway, unwilling to part. You had grown inquisitive of the life the young woman had led until now, so you dared to ask. Her name was Yuki, she had told you, adding with light laughter that yes, she knew it was a very common name. There had been at least four by the same name in her year. She would have started as a senior at the university of Domino this past spring, had her parents allowed. She would have graduated with a three point five grade point average, at least, she was confident, in business administration. She wouldn’t speak about the baby’s father, you wouldn’t ask, it wasn’t important.

“Moments before you came, I thought my life was ruined,” she confessed, wiping away tears glossing her cheeks. “I told them I didn’t even want her brought to my room. I’ve always heard mothers say they learned to live for their children, but it just made never sense to me. I want to live for myself, but now also for her...”

“She can only do well if you do,” you completed her sentence.

“Exactly.”

“A long time ago,” you told her through brimming tears, eyes pouring over the sleeping newborn, “someone offered me a lifeline, it was oxygen really, back then. Someday, I told myself I would pay it forward.” She watched you without thorough comprehension for the direction of your monologue. “I think I found her.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“I’m going to find you a place to live, and you’re going to finish your degree - ”

“I couldn’t - ”

“You need to be more selfish than that in this world,” you rebuked, “especially for her sake. Besides, I didn’t say I was giving it to you for free. After you graduate, come work for me.”

“You’re not serious,” she choked.

“It would be a cruel joke if I wasn’t.”

“You’re not serious,” she repeated, voice climbing to a reedy exclamation. The newborn stirred, and she quickly relieved you of her, and in familiar arms, recognizing her mother’s scent, the infant settled.

The opportunity to assure her was disrupted by a stampede of footsteps turning the corridor. They stopped all at once, and a single set of purposeful footsteps proceeded. You turned your head with your heart thumping in your stomach at what instinct had decided was unexpected ambush. Instead your husband stood, towering imposingly, steps past where the light from the adjacent hallway had stopped spilling.

You noticed his hair was uncharacteristically dishevelled, usually well pressed collared shirt wrinkled. In fact, there were many things about him which contradicted his normal; namely the unease in his eyes. It flickered to naught as he found you.

He marched as if a warring general to your side, terrorizing the young woman taking cover behind you.

“What the hell are you thinking?” he demanded in a hush, switching to your native tongue. “What are people going to think if you’re sitting here crying in front of the maternity ward?”

It was then that you noticed the figures lingering at the near edges of the corridor, suspicious whispers drifting between them. Wiping your tears, you hung your head, hair concealing you once again.

“Who is she?”

“A friend,” you responded in Japanese. “Can you do me a favour?”

“What is it?”

You asked him to arrange for her a suite from your penthouse building, and have maids sent there, preferably ones experienced in caring for a newborn. He questioned why, scrutinizing the young woman with hard eyes. She had kept you together, you advised, and that to you in that instant, it had been everything.

Wordlessly he agreed, her protests falling on deaf ears. With his finger he signalled for Isono to come forward, relaying your instructions.

Gathering your crutches, he lifted you with an arm snaking your waist to your feet.

“I would rather carry you, but it would draw too much attention,” he informed.

 

At the turn of the corridor she called your name. Seto cursed, irritated her beckoning would attract undesired attention.

Leaning into him, you looked over your shoulder. She was standing beside Isono, her baby cradled against her chest.

“Do you mind if I name her after you?” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think :)


	46. Error: Full Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who had concerns about the plot not moving. I’m looking at you PandaMuse. Come at me. I say this with love. All the love. But really, after this ending, you’ll all come for me.

“We need to talk.”

There it was, the most ominous, threatening and cataclysm promising sequence of words which inspired irrational apprehension in even the entirely faultless and guiltless. It foreboded the worst, without revealing anything at all.

You supposed it was fitting that he presented nothing besides his tense shoulders as he said this; it hinted vaguely of danger without affording you his expression to hunt for clues in, though no doubt, given his present bearing, his countenance wouldn’t disclose anything he didn’t consciously wish to reveal.

“We already talked.” You pressed yourself to remember that he had earlier in the evening alluded to a future together, so perhaps it was safe to find solace in the hope that he wouldn’t be discussing divorce.

“No,” he calmly disputed, removing his hands from the pocket of his dress pants, “you cried and I talked, then you decided fall asleep on your own volition. I doubt any of what I said was communicated, much less understood.”

Your legs were dangling off the edge of the hospital bed; there was a cold draft sweeping the floor.

The rush of late evening traffic beyond the fourteenth floor window penetrated the closed glass.

“I don’t think I could live without you.”

“Stop spewing weak nonsense,” he snarled, turning away from the window. “You would never need to consider the possibility, I don’t plan to make you a widow.”

“You don’t want a divorce?” Paranoia was preying upon your reasoning.

Arching his neck towards the ceiling he grunted. “I’ve taken care of the paperwork. I’m taking you home.”

“What is it you want to talk about?”

“We’ll discuss it someplace not here.”

“I was never unfaithful to you.”

“I realize that.”

“Then what is there left to discuss?”

“Children!” He met you with a smouldering gaze, the subtle traces of fatigue etching themselves into his alabaster complexion, a shadow colouring itself in under his heavy eyes. “I’ve said this to you before and will say it again, and don’t jump me because you misunderstand because I don’t mean right in this very moment. We need children, both of us. And I need them before I’m forty. At this rate, it’s going to be miscarriage after miscarriage and on an emotional level, I don’t know how many more you can handle, because physically, I feel like you’re going to drop where you stand.”

“Seto,” your brittle voice, delivered with quivering lips glossed with tears, trembled then cracked.

“Am I wrong?”

“No...but.”

“I love you,” he scolded you in confession. The confession as it echoed against the walls and met its unsuspecting recipient, commanded complete silence. As it rained over his own ears, it surprised him with how aggressively it had been doled out.

You made to stutter an apology.

“Unless you’re rejecting me, don’t apologize. Men don’t like hearing an apology after confessing to the woman they love.”

“Yes,” you swallowed. It was a response a child gave to their teacher; taut and obsequious, not to their lover and husband who had moments prior - as unconventionally as it many have been declared - confessed their affection.

He could see the fissions eroding away at the intimacy, in fact, he had observed it earlier, and was presently toiling in an effort to mend it before the crevices gave way to the ocean pouring out from behind it.

You waited for him to say something, anything, then began pondering if perhaps he wished for you to reciprocate his confession, which in all honesty had been communicated more as a reprimand; he had quite literally yelled at you saying he loved you. You supposed in everything, he was the exception, not the rule.

“Would you hold me?” you inquired in a pitch so silent it hardly manifested against the air. This in turn elicited an exhausted sigh, though not because he was averse to it.

“And would that fix everything?”

“I think it would.”

“Simple minded child,” he cursed, stepping forward and embracing you. Secretly, he was rather contented by this. At the beginning, he had hated how with your mere presence, you would dismantle his guard, but these days, he had discovered the comfort of vulnerability in at least a single person’s presence. Unlike his brother, while a great deal younger, you were his equal.

“Am I simple-minded or is everything unnecessarily convoluted in your head?” you dared to question, words muffling against his shirt.

His throaty laughter reverberated in his gut against your face. “I must have lost my mind.”

“What?”

“I love you,” he husked in a whisper, bending forward to press his lips against your hairline.

...

A maid arranged an assortment of French desserts on the coffee table in front of you; rose tarts dusted gold, chestnut macaron tarts crowned with fresh nuts, raspberry dome cakes glossed fuschia and lavender Saint Honorés.

You were advised they had been prepared earlier that evening by the newly employed pastry chef, a young graduate from Le Cordon Bleu.

You watched your husband occupied on a phone call, standing before the closed French windows of the drawing room designed in seventeenth century French style, as you had observed was a continuing theme in the mansion. He maintained a sharp glare, gazing out at the court yard, his expression severe. It transformed dramatically as he set off towards you at the conclusion of his exchange, pocketing his phone.

Walking around the gilded, periwinkle blue, French settles to your side, he seemed to school his expression to relax. Still, you inquired after his austere countenance. Most would have found it peculiar; your concern, for most, it was the default setting on Seto Kaiba. “You’re going to give yourself, a heart attack,” you chided, reaching out for his hand. “What is it?”

He merely dismissed you with a shake of his head.

The silk navy robe, trimmed with ivory pinstripes hung open over dark pants, revealing his toned physique. From your peripheral, you caught a glimpse of the maid servant’s ogling gaze, as it strayed from the cup of tea she had been pouring him, plastering over his bare skin. Those eyes followed as he tugged the pants up from habit of wearing dress pants, sitting in the space between you and her, against the armrest.

“You can leave now,” you ordered her, irritated when your husband failed to notice. The butler standing by the door detected your tone of hostility, and made haste in ushering her out. The door was closed behind him,

Left in solitude with your husband, your authority fizzled, and was replaced by nerves, shot nerves.

“How are you feeling?” he asked you, a gentle glaze to his words as he rested his palm over yours on your lap.

“Awful,” you admitted, eyes fallen over your hands. To describe it as the worst period you’ve experienced would be weak. It was beyond that; life was literally being shredded out of you, and for either the physical sensation or the psychological assault to be described in words would be unfathomable. You were told that it was fortunate - that it was fortunate - for the miscarriage to have happened early on, that otherwise, it would have required a surgical procedure, but it was no consolation. You had lost your child.

“Eat something, you need to gain your strength,” Seto advised, offering you a rose tart on a dessert plate. “I hired the chef from Paris...for you.”

“I can’t eat all that now that I’m not pregnant anymore. If I’m not going to be a mother, I need to think of my career,” you said, adding in a quieter tone, “or at least being a wife you find attractive.”

A low growl rolled in his throat. “I plan to get you pregnant,” he apprised in a matter-of-fact tone, “and I can’t do that if you’re on the verge of collapsing at any given moment. Eat.” His register made clear that the man’s words were not a suggestion.

As you carved your fork through the rosetted cream, he began speaking again.

“What happened was not your fault,” he assured knowingly. You crossed your legs on the settee, not motioning to acknowledge his words. “I should have been more careful.” He allowed a pause as he gathered his thoughts.

Your thoughts were elsewhere.

“Where were you this afternoon?”

“What?”

“When I asked you to get out.” You cringed at your own words. “When you stormed out.”

“In a meeting.” He studied your souring expression, understanding you would not be pacified by his vague response, he elaborated. “One of your pharmaceutical companies were under investigation for supposedly manufacturing products with an ingredient prohibited in Japan. They weren’t. I was meeting with the chief prosecutor unofficially to have it dismissed.”

You faced him with unrestrained surprise, apologetic for the rampage and subsequent loss which had sparked from your thoughtlessness.

“I’m so sorry - ”

“It’s not - ”

“No, Seto...our baby...because of me.” You collapsed into his chest. The young president lifted the dessert threatening to topple from your hand, setting it back on the coffee table. He reciprocated your distraught embrace by draping a heavy arm over your back.

“It’s my fault,” he asserted. “I should have never acted the way I did. It was a disgrace to accuse you of being involved in an affair with Hidehira. Could you forgive me?”

Your embrace tightened, crawling on to his lap, needing to feel his bare skin against yours. He chuckled lightly as you repeated a habit he was familiar with from before the amnesia. He received it as a gesture of forgiveness.

“I love you,” he heard you mumble against his chest. “I was so afraid you would come back with divorce papers.”

“I would never divorce you,” he gruffly avowed. Even if you were unfaithful, a subconscious voice spoke, he couldn’t fathom being separated from you. He had considered, and it was impossible, his previous convictions a gross miscalculations. Your infidelity would ruin him, certainly, but he just couldn’t let another man have you, at least, not entirely. “Now are you ready to listen?”

You hummed, inviting him to speak.

“You’re at the risk of developing a serious eating disorder, your blood reports are atrocious, and as your husband, I’m taking charge of your health. Now, before it’s too late. Prior to the accident, I had a nutritionist plan your meals, and there was progress. I’ve personally employed a nutritionist to plan your meals again. You’re to follow her instructions whether I’m here to oversee it or not, is that understood?”

“Yes,” you squeaked. You were rewarded for your compliance with a stroke of his hand over your hair.

“You can’t be trusted with birth control, so I’m managing that going forward also. We’re planning this pregnancy. And you’re going to be ready.”

You responded with another tired hum.

“If it can be helped, find time to work out with me.” Another hum. You were drawing absent circles on his bare chest with your index finger. “You can start by holding your cats as practice for a baby,” he added as a means of diffusing the tension, and also to test if he had your attention.

“I already know how to hold a cat, a baby is squishy.”

If he was honest with himself, he found the quip amusing. Instead, in true Seto fashion, he berated you for being a child.

...

You lay limp in his embrace, surrounded by him, the coverlet weighing softly.

From the nightstand, he retrieved a device resembling a steel golf ball. The floating hologram projector he had originally designed for the baby’s nursery, but given the turn of events, hoped it would perhaps comfort you.

“I have something for you,” Seto husked in your ear. Activating it with a press of a button, your curious eyes following the sphere as he launched it into the air.

From its metallic pores erupted a prism of opalescent light; birthing nebulas and galaxies in the space all around you. The room flushed navy, frazil-silver stars blossoming, connecting in constellations, while burnt amber and ultra violet grasped at the darkness like wispy tulle and tumbling chiffon; formless gases spiralling to the ceiling. Mesmerized, your vision filled with the living, breathing night sky, writhing and transforming.

“Seto this...this...” You were on the verge of tears.

“Foolish girl,” he cursed, wiping at your wet cheeks, “why is your first response to always cry?” All these stars, and he still wished to look at nothing but you.

“Because it’s so beautiful, and - ” You reached up to the writhing cosmos, your fingers gliding through the prism-pink air. “- You’re amazing...it’s so much prettier than the actual thing.”

He smirked, pleased by the declaration which insinuated that the universe he’d created, in his wife’s eye was superior to the one of natural design.

He turned your face to his with a twist of his fingers, bringing his lips to close over yours. “That’s my girl,” he rasped.

You had no concept for the root of his amusement.

“I’m thinking of retiring from acting, after this one,” you divulged after a while of threading your fingers through your husband’s creation glittering at your fingertips.

Seto was contented by this announcement, though he wanted to know you were making the decision for the right reasons; that you were making it for yourself.

“How come?”

“After the past few weeks, I’ve decided being a housewife suited me better.”

Well that escalated dramatically, Seto thought. The nation’s first love retiring would cause certain public outrage, that could be wagered on, though he didn’t care for the trivial profession of acting, so personally, he championed the decision. What concerned him however, was his wife, who was possibly the most powerful woman in the country in her own right, sacrificing it for a more domestic position. To put it bluntly, despite having suggested it many times himself, he hated that idea. He knew, having followed you closely from a younger age, better than yourself in the present moment, how much of your youth had been invested in your corporate ascent. To leave it to pursue a role of a housewife was wasteful. He waould still thread with caution in spite of his attitude on the affair; if it made you happy, he would support you. It’s not as if his income couldn’t afford for the both of you. Who was he kidding by being humble, he could afford for every family in America.

“When you retire,” he remarked, “they will come for my neck first.”

“I’m going to focus on being a good wife to you, and a better mother.”

Was this the same woman? Seto considered checking your head for a concussion.

“You...want to stay home and raise our children?” he questioned, plagued with incredulity.

“Yes, in fact I think I’ll be pretty good at it. It’ll be difficult to raise children if we are both working and you enjoy my cooking, which I can’t do for you if I’m stuck on a film set or in a board meeting all day and - ”

The young president sat up, rubbing away the sleep weighing his eyes. “You’re...doing this...for my sake?”

“I’ve thought this over many times,” you mumbled to him, “and I think for everything you’ve given me, and not as some business transaction or even as compensation, genuinely for everything you’ve done, for everything that you are, I want to share my future with you. I can’t think of anything else to offer you. My youth, for looking after me who was young and immature, it’s yours. I’m giving you all of it. I don’t want to waste my time at a company or working... being an idol to a nation when I have a husband back home who deserves all of me.”

Your father had been your mother’s faith, and it had destroyed her, but your husband was different, you whetted your resolve as you followed in her footsteps.

“You’re not doing that,” Seto muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was misguided thinking, he knew; a desperate bid for his affection. “I will spend most of my life in a boardroom, and so will you. You’re not abandoning your career for a man, that’s pathetic. More specifically, I will not be the man you’re abandoning your life’s work for. When we have a family, we will figure out a way to raise children which doesn’t involve you permanently leaving your post as the head of your conglomerate. You’re not having them alone.”

“You don’t care that I’ll continue to work?” you questioned with hesitance.

“I find you the most attractive,” he husked darkly, rolling to hover over you, “when you’re working.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Besides, I can’t do you against your office window in nothing but your heels if you’re a housewife,” he spoke in a throaty register, lips blowing hot breath against your ear. A shiver prickled your skin, your arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer.

“I don’t deserve you,” you whispered in his ear.

He would say the same.

...

  
“What do you think of a big family?” you asked Seto.

The clacking of keys came to a halt, silence enveloping the vast study.

His head leaned away from the screen, though his eyes rested against its surface, narrowed as if they were scrutinizing the proposal; you had his attention.

“If your body can handle it.” He allowed a thoughtful pause, lacing his fingers under his chin. His gaze lifted to find you, creases continuing to frame his cerulean orbs. “I didn’t realize you liked children.” It was a statement, though he made clear he expected an answer.

“If they’re mini versions of you,” you tittered, twisting shyly before his desk.

A smirk creased the corner of his mouth, amused. “In other words,” he rasped, “you’re asking me to take care of a large family. Last I recall, you couldn’t hold a child to save your life.”

“Rude.”

“I’m a man of facts,” he maintained.

In reality, in the time it took him to entertain your musings, a more productive enterprise could have occupied his evening. His former self may have even preferred it, though now, returning home after work, following dinner, he waited for you to seek him out in his study, and fill all his thoughts with inconsequential - though by no means did he consider them so - details, of your day, the future, and how the foxglove plants you had bedded at the beginning of summer had finally bloomed.

On the occasion that you didn’t, usually on the count of poor health, which to his dismay was ailing you more often, especially with your frequent trips to Seoul for filming, and following the second miscarriage, he found himself retiring to the bedroom he shared with you earlier than usual.

You were wearing an emerald slip today he observed, the chantilly lace hem hardly grazing your upper thighs as you twirled barefoot on plush carpet, absorbed into a monologue about the English rose vines he’d commissioned to climb your bedroom wall and balcony.

Next spring he would have the front garden redesigned with the English roses you loved so much.

Next spring, you would make him a beautiful bride, he thought.

“What time is your flight tomorrow morning?” he inquired out of the blue.

“Eight-fifteen, why?”

“I’m coming with you,” he informed, stoic as ever.

“Oh.” You were thrilled. “Do you have business there?”

“Something like that.” In actuality, you would be away from him for a week, constant travel too straining on your declining health, and he didn’t think he could bear that. He had come to realize that you filled many empty corners of the vast manor he had not previously had the occasion to notice.

“Can we stay at my place?”

“I don’t see why not,” he agreed following some consideration.

...

As you hung the second crystal chandelier earring to match your ensemble of an indigo, and black and white checkered coat bound with a leather belt over a black slip, you took one final glance in the mirror.

Seto had left your Lotte Tower apartment that evening for a meeting - as he had dubbed it, though it was more honestly dubbed a confrontation - with director Ashikaga regarding the results of the paternity test Eisuke had returned. Seto had decided it would be a matter better settled one on one. As formidable as you and Mokuba were in a board room, emotions would run too high on both parties, distracting from the matter at hand.

Sliding on a pair of nude Jimmy Choos and snatching a silver envelope clutch, you slipped from the apartment.

You on the other hand were on en route to a meeting with a Taiwanese investor interested in expanding your ventures there.

...

“It’s an honour to be the first you’re meeting with officially following the accident, president” the investor greeted, rising from his patio seat overlooking the darkened Han river reflecting city lights. He offered you his hand, which you politely accepted in a firm shake.

“Wang Shen right? It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” you returned.

“Yes, but my father was actually Japanese, so if you’d prefer,” the man offered as you assumed seats across from each other, “you can call me Wakamura Hideji. That is...if you’d prefer.”

“If that’s more comfortable,” you smiled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yukari’s Fate will be discussed in the following chapters, as will the dating/cheating scandal AND paternity test meeting. Bear with me, it’s all coming. In the meanwhile, please let me know what you think.
> 
> Coat: https://pin.it/5l5r4hmcvypbzu


	47. Love, Scotch & Vodka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seto may have a drinking problem and a problem communicating his feelings.

You met him near the helipad of the Tower, his Valentino coat over his suit billowing as he dismounted the helicopter before it had entirely met the asphalt. He hit the ground running; pace slowing to a purposeful march as he approached you, shoulders proud.

Show off, you grinned as you watched your husband coming to you. The helicopter blades slicing twilight air was a dull drum, draining all other sound. “I think I fell for you all over again,” you purred against the roar of the wind, your hair caught in a whirlwind about you as he snatched you into his arms, a stern scowl fixed to his face.

“Something wrong with that?”

“You’re going to give me a heart attack,” you whined, “you’ll seriously be the end of me.”

“Good,” he growled, a smirk curling his lip.

“How did things work out?”

“I need a glass of scotch and you in bed,” was his response, dragging you by the wrist towards the rooftop entrance to the building.

“I take it didn’t go well?”

“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re asking,” Seto snarled. “Not today anyway.”

His response sowed a seed of dread in the pit of your stomach. Perhaps it had always been there, and his words were the stimulation it needed to bud.

The paternity test results had not required manipulation; there would be no child born to the Kaiba family next spring, and while it allowed all of you to exhale the long breath you’ve been holding in, it would stand to accomplish nothing. Director Ashikaga would project his dirty misdeeds on you, and the two parties would accuse each other of deceit and manipulation with neither accepting the other’s results.

  
Seto Kaiba was stone cold sober at a time he needed alcohol pacifying his system. Unbeknownst to most, he did some of his best thinking and negotiating while plastered. And though plastered was a difficult state for him to achieve given his aggravating tolerance for the substance, in his bachelor days, it had never discouraged him from trying. Drinking himself unconscious was an incredibly effective way to avoid the torments of a restless sleep, in spite of the consequences which followed the next morning. These days, he had a nagging wife to steer clear of, though next to you, he slept just fine.

“Don’t even think about it,” you admonished as you stripped down to your black silk slip, eyeing your husband as he retrieved a rocks glass from the kitchen cabinet.

“I just need a glass,” he husked, ignoring your glare as he browsed your extensive collection of imported scotch and spirits suspended in glass. You knew better than anyone that for Seto, a glass, was never just a glass. If he really wanted to drink just a glass of whiskey, he might as well help himself to some ice water; in other words, it did nothing for him. After all, it wasn’t blood in those veins it was liquid fucking diamonds.

“I’m not sleeping with you while you reek of alcohol,” you warned as he grabbed a crystal bottle of burnt amber and set off towards the living room. Setting the glass down on the coffee table, he tipped the bottle of Macallan, paying no heed to your words.

“I love you,” he hoarsely confessed, swallowing a full glass, while threading long fingers through his hair, “but I need this.”

Fuck, you cursed in thought, watching his protruding Adam’s apple bob as he chugged, in that moment acutely aware of how ravishing he was in his mildly dishevelled state. He could down that entire bottle and if he asked for you in bed, he would have you, at the drop of a hat at that. It was infuriating. In fact, you might just throw yourself at him without him ever needing to ask.

“Come here,” he ordered, gesturing you over with a dismissive wave of his hand. He was half way through his second glass.

Here we go.

“Let me get you something to eat at least, if you’re planning on doing this,” you sighed, turning to the kitchen. “You’re going to give yourself a sour stomach otherwise.” Through his frustration he allowed his lip to wrinkle, grateful for your concern.

A few minutes later and a platter of intricately sliced fruit and Swiss cheeses was placed down before him, albeit pointedly.

“Anju,” you explained in Korean.

With a toothpick he held up a finely carved slice of apple, and with a dry smile, he bit into it.

His tie and suit jacket were shed over the arm of the sofa, the top few buttons of his dress shirt undone.

You couldn’t translate in glasses, but a fair third of the decanter was empty now, which, given its size, was a concerning amount.

“It’s a good thing you’re rich,” you groused, “you can grow yourself a new liver when you’re thirty next year.”

“I’m not thirty next year,” he corrected, chuckling, “I’m still twenty eight. And you’re as intimidating as a bunny rabbit.” Then his expression turned dark as he faced you, swirling the half full amber poison. He leaned over; you leaning away in response, the sweet acidity on his breath churning your gut. “It makes me want to eat you up.” Your expression contorted, and he pulled away laughing; a guttural laugh of the manic variety. If you hadn’t known him better, you would have guessed he was buzzed. You knew him better.

“Seto,” you cooed, learning forward, allowing one strap to slip past your shoulder, the flimsy silk threatening to expose your breast as it gathered down. You were hoping this would lure him away from the alcohol.

He downed another glass, merely watching you with a raised brow; he wanted a show.

It wouldn’t be much of a show considering you wore no bra, but you would give it to him anyway.

Smiling coyly, with a flick of a finger, you pushed the second strap off your shoulder. The fabric falling to your waist, exposed your full breasts, your nipples erect from the sudden touch of cold. Desire sparking in his eyes, cerulean began to smoulder. As he reached out to you, you stood, just out of reach; the dress pooled to the floor, leaving you in a lace black underwear.

A full glass in hand, he mirrored your motion, rising to his feet. When he stepped towards you, you were his reflection; stepping away. You would make him chase. Stepping around the sofa, you put a distance which was frustrating to him between you; he needed the touch of your bare skin. Draining the glass dry, he left the heavy glass on the coffee table. As he pursued you with an amused smirk, you attempted to escape in the direction towards the bedroom.

You had grossly miscalculated however the difference in height; that for every five of your steps, all he needed was one long stride you had forgotten to consider. As you reached decorative steps up leading up to the base of the stairs, he caught you. Apprehending you from behind, he swept you into his chest with one arm around your waist, eliciting a giddy squeal at the flush of his warmth on your back, your feet kicking the air.

You had believed your scheme successful. Instead, he brought you back to the sofa, filling his glass with one arm.

“You said one glass,” you whined, leaned against him with your legs stretched across the seat cushions; his other arm still holding you captive. “You’ve had like seven — that I’ve seen.”

“Eight. And let me be tonight,” he rasped, tightening his hold on you while taking a long swig.

Placing a raspberry in his mouth, he leaned over you, crushing his lips against yours. His fingers tipped your chin to an angle favourable to him as he forced the small fruit through his lips onto your mouth, kissing you languidly. The raspberry was coated in a spicy bitterness, as was his tongue.

“Swallow,” he growled in command, pushing you supine over the sofa cushions, tossing a few throw pillows over the living room floor to make room.

Before you could comprehend, another fruit was thrust into your mouth through his lips; a strawberry this time. His lower half was grinding you, a palm fondling your breast.

As you chewed the spicy fruit, his lip curled with satisfaction. “Good girl,” he purred darkly, wiping your lower lip with his thumb, before bringing it to his own lips. “Careful,” he taunted, “I can read you like an open book.”

You wrapped your legs around his hips in response. For now at least, he seems to have forgotten the lure of the scotch. It was a wonder how the man was still standing after all he had consumed, much less sober, though admittedly to a questioning degree given his behaviour.

“I’m not drunk,” Seto advised flatly, reading your mind. Undoing your legs, he slid off your panties, the lace scraping your smooth legs. “Takes more than a bottle of this to get me.” Of course, this was the man who resisted the intoxication of an A grade aphrodisiac too potent to be distributed on the market, after ingesting in a single dose the intended amount for a fortnight. With that his mouth claimed one breast, his hand kneading the other, tugging and twisting your nipple. The combination afforded him your hand knotting in his hair, and a wanton moan, mewling his name.

Your head thrown back against the cushions, you prepared yourself for him. Instead, he pulled away, bringing you with him to straddle his lap. His arm around you as he held you, he continued to knead your breasts while finishing his forgotten glass, eyes fixed on the Seoul sky line beyond the wall of glass across the room.

“Be a good girl and let me have you,” he spoke in a coarse whisper against your ear, swirling his glass once more. There was pulse where your thighs met, wetness soaking into his dress pants.

“I’m already yours,” you reminded, tilting your chin up to meet his bitter lips, your hand searching for his inner thigh. You closed your palm over his crotch; he was already hard. He hissed at your touch.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to do that,” Seto chided, putting down his empty glass. “Now then,” he drawled, “let’s take care of business in the bedroom.”

Seto spared no hesitation throwing you on the bed. As he clambered over you, his usually sharp, stormy eyes were clouded, the effects of the scotch seeping into his system.

You unbuttoned his shirt, and he discarded it over the edge while you fumbled with his impossible belt buckle. Chuckling and remarking how you were a child, he unclasped the mechanism with an easy twist of his fingers. As the belt came undone, the dress pants followed, collapsing with a faint susurrus over the floor.

It was a hopeless battle, fighting the urge not to stare at his protruding bulge through his briefs. Noticing your carnal gaze Seto roared with laughter prickling your hot skin. “Like what you see?” It was nothing to be ashamed of, you reasoned through the blood pounding your ears and heating your face, he was your husband. His body was yours, and only yours, you had every right. In the midst of your debate he leaned over, “Make up for last time,” he spoke in a husk. “I’ll be gentle.”

Freeing his veiny erection from his briefs, he rubbed his thick length against your inner lips; wetness pouring out to meet him from your trembling mouth of arousal.

He chuckled in taunt, “Someone’s excited.” That you were; desperate for him. “You want to play with your husband?” Seto teased, running his lips along your jawline. “Hmm?”

A breathy whimper was apparently not satisfactory for him.

“I can’t hear you.” He acted agonizingly nonchalant, as if he had all the time in the world, as if your swollen inner lips weren’t twitching as they kissed his own arousal, threatening to burst.

“Please...Seto just fuck me already,” you managed to squeak, “enough with the games.”

He hadn’t slept with you since the incident, always threading on eggshells on the conversation of intimacy. Sex was suddenly taboo and he refused to look at you naked. He held you at night, kissed you when you asked, though still in the most wholesome way imaginable, and it was maddening. When he had asked for you in bed that night, you had to summon every last shred of self control not to jump his bones, which as you had discovered would only be successful if he was willing to reciprocate; which lately he never was.

Thrusting shallowly into you, your walls clenched to memorize the shape of him; almost having forgotten the sensation after weeks of deprivation.

“Deeper...” Your response was instantaneous.

The pulse of his motions were soft and slow, as if you were a flower who would combust into a flurry of petals if he thrust too hard. With lithe waves of his wiry form, he made love to you in the sweetest sense of the definition. Sweet was not what you had signed up for; you had waited weeks for this man.

It was anticlimactic.

“Seto,” you called him. Sinking your teeth into your lower lips, you twisted your hands up to hold his forearms anchored into the sheets on either side of your head.

It was not what he had desired either; though each time he plunged himself into your wet heat, sheathing his arousal in your throbbing core, he reminded himself that his was more than he deserved. Your affection was a privilege.

“Seto look at me.”

He did.

You spoke slowly, drawing your lips closer to his ear. “Choke me,” you begged, teasing the curve of his ear with your tongue, “and fuck me like I’m your whore.”

Your words shocked him so profoundly that for a moment, the rutting of his hips stopped ceased against you.

“I didn’t say stop.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” His voice was so low and strained that it was hardly audible.

“I do.”

Perhaps a side effect of the alcohol, it took a long moment to process those words. “Are you sure?” His expression contorted.

You nodded eagerly. “I don’t want to feel my legs tomorrow morning.”

The corner of his lips twisted, and in the next moment, fingers enclasped your throat, gouging soft skin as he slammed your head back against the pillow. His eyes changed, arousal burning them a charcoal black. With an unsettling grin, he lowered his lips to your ear. All of his hunger he had refused to indulge came pouring forth at once, threatening that if he didn’t satiate himself, it would consume him alive. His wife was splayed under him, and you looked beautiful coming undone.

“I didn’t realize I married such a filthy slut,” his tongue clicked the bottom of his palate harshly as he enunciated the word slut. “Fine,” he panted, “be my whore.”

“I’ve been meaning to bring this up for a while, I’ve been hearing rumours from the maids about me being wrapped around your finger,” he grunted. “Let’s see who is wrapped around who’s. I think someone needs a reminder who their body belongs to,” your husband threatened darkly, fingers slithering over your breasts. “I’m going to break you.”

“Master,” you choked with hooded eyes, chest erratically rising and falling.

A shiver ruptured through Seto’s own body. He couldn’t fathom how a single word could awaken so much, electricity writhing at every nerve ending. When had he made this out of you he wondered, another shudder breaking through him.

“That’s right,” he growled, “call my name again.”

Through parted lips, “Master,” he heard you call him again strangled, and carnal lust surged through him.

His erection grew inside your core, stretching your walls to accommodate his swelling girth, and he spared no time, ravaging your wet sex. His hips hammered into you, your juices squelching against his as the rapid sound of skin beating broke across the room.

“Is this what you wanted?” Seto demanded in between grunts through his clenched jaw.

Strangled moans rewarded him, your open lips gasping for air. In any other place, the expression torturing your features; contorted as if you were in horrible pain would have caused him great concern, but here, it made him drunk on power. You were his to do with as he pleased, and you were beautiful, choking on his name.

Laying over you, his lips left hot welts all over your soft skin, marking your neck, clavicle and breasts.

His strokes reached deeper still. “Let no man see you like this,” he cursed in your ear. “My name is the only one you’re allowed to say. Do you understand?’’

He wouldn’t know but you were seeing stars, his cock rolling over a very particular place between your walls. You heard his words, but your body was twitching under him in euphoria, pleasure short circuiting every cell and fibre, rendering your mind too useless to form an adequate response. ‘Seto,’ was the only thought manifesting over and over in your mind, so it was the only thing you would chant, as if he were he were your god, your prayer.

“You’re too far gone, aren’t you?” you heard him chuckle, pleased with what he had made of you.

“You feel amazing,” you were reduced to sobs, his cock scraping every point of pleasure, perfectly, over and over. The lightening strokes he forced inside burnt you, the cold air against his saliva coating your lips and nipples your only point of grounding.

Your shameless moans were your husband’s undoing. He brought himself to slow as he felt his orgasm near. The more he tortured himself with its prolonging, the harder it would hit him.

Removing his grip on your throat, he held you in both his arms as he made love to you with long, languid and purposeful strokes. It was absolutely agonizing. The slow, drawn out friction was almost unbearable, almost. Between thrusts he grunted your name, face buried in the crook of your neck. You loved it when when he did that; as if he just couldn't help himself with how good you made him feel.

He moaned your name, you never fathomed Seto Kaiba to be a man capable of producing such a sound.

Unbeknownst to you, you were his addiction.

“Fuck,” he husked, “you’re so fucking tight.”

“Seto,” you gasped, “I think I’m coming.”

“A little longer,” he growled, “I’m almost there.” His stamina was weakened by long subdued desire; that as he indulged himself he had reacted too excessively to your touch, forgetting to pace himself.

Under him you were raking your nails against his back, possibly drawing blood as your whole being twitched and spasmed to the rhythm of his hips.

“I can’t,” you managed to whimper before the ceiling above you dissolved to liquid ivory. It sparked between your legs and paralyzed your body; you felt everything and nothing at all. It was a rush of adrenaline straddling euphoric bliss and friction. He brought himself into you as you rode your climax, your nails impaling his built back. You could feel distantly the perspiration dripping from his fringe gathering in high clavicles. You wanted to tell him you loved him and that you were his, over and over again, but the words formed in incoherent babbles, his name strung together with pleading whimpers.

His throaty laugh escaped into your ears, commending you for being such a good girl. How his words could trigger sensations akin to a second orgasm you couldn’t comprehend. You were convinced he was a god.

His fingers tightened like a vise around your throat once more. Your breath knotted, suffocating you. It was ecstasy.

“Come inside me,” you choked. He raised an eyebrow amidst his tight expression. “Please...” you were coughing, struggling to form words.

Seemingly at the words he met his release. He roared your name, deafening you as his voice filled your ears. His hips convulsed violently between your thighs, before his seed scalded your core. You sighed at the feeling of satisfaction which always followed the feeling of him filling you with his sticky warmth. As he continued to drive shallow plunges into you, you could hear what he had forced into you squelch against your walls.

“I feel so dirty,” you moaned in your husband’s ear.

“And you like it,” Seto grit his teeth, collapsing over you.

“I do.”

Catching his breath he erupted into a gravelly laugh.

“What?” you groused.

“I’m a god, am I?” he questioned smugly, lifting to hover over you. He was sorting stray hair as he awaited a response.

You were mortified, feeling your fine hair stand like needles at attention, blood flowing back in your veins. You swallowed thickly, reluctant to speak.

“I pleasure you that much do I?” The conceited and charming bastard. His ego didn’t need to be stroked, it was plenty swollen as it was. He tucked a wisp of hair behind your ear. “Wife?”

“Please just act like you didn’t hear anything.” You squeezed your eyes closed.

“Are you embarrassed that I heard?” Even better, you could already hear his thoughts. He rolled over to your side, slipping under the comforter and pulling you with him, away from the sodden spot. In the embrace of his arms, he continued his assault. “How am I a god?”

“For the love of god Seto,” you whined, “stop.”

“For the love of god?” He arched a brow.

“Okay, fine, yes you felt that good.”

“That’s my girl.”

“And you have a terrible sense of humour.”

His chuckled reverberated in his chest, roaring against your temple. He pressed his lips over your hairline. “Did I hurt you?” he inquired, tone suddenly sober.

“Only in the best ways possible,” you purred against his chest. “I can’t feel my legs right now and it’s amazing.”

“I’m starting to think you’re a masochist.”

“Why can’t you be a normal husband?” you complained, slapping his pecs.

His arm over your waist tightened, pulling you closer. “You should know me better by now,” he chortled, surrounding you.

“I love you,” you murmured.

“I know that now.”

...

  
You roused to uninterrupted typing beside you, fresh notes of chypre and the sharp bitterness of a potent spirit lingered. Peeling open bleary eyes, you realized you were nestled against his side. His hair was still damp and un-styled, falling carelessly over the thin frames of his specs, which glinted as it reflected the chrome blue light of his laptop.

The cashmere of his navy dressing robe was so soft against your cheek, that had the pungent aroma of alcohol not been threatening to give you a headache, you would never have separated to investigate.

“Seto what is that stench?” You crinkled your nose, sitting up; the sheets falling away to your waist. “Is that vodka?” You were incensed as you noticed the black crowned, Ketel One bottle on the nightstand, half empty. “Are you trying to give yourself alcohol poisoning?”

Darkened orbs darted to their peripherals to find you, fingers lifting from the keyboard; a line of code left unfinished. He took a long swallow from the glass in his other hand, as if to make a point. Tilting his neck to the side, he was rewarded with a tension relieving crack.

“I’m placing you under house arrest,” he calmly advised, refilling his glass, not a trace of alcohol in his throaty, velvet voice.

“For what!?” You grappled his forearm reaching over for the bottle, wrestling the chilled glass from his tightening fingers. He held you at bay with the arm gripping the glass. “Stop...drinking so much...what the hell has gotten into you?”

His were arms of steel, unmoved by the full force of your whole form. Your small hands wrapped around his much larger slender fingers, fighting to loosen them.

“You’re going to cut yourself,” he growled, holding it tighter. As he motioned to bring the glass to his lips, you hooked your hand on his forearms. The clear spirit sloshed dangerously around the edge of the glass before pouring over his laptop. 

Seto’s were the eyes of death.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think :)
> 
> Her apartment living room: except, imagine the layout flipped : https://pin.it/rptmxdumptoaun  
> / https://pin.it/u6tt53z5ks6qcc
> 
> Seto’s cashmere dressing gown if anyone is interested for a change: https://www.derek-rose.com/men/clothing/mens-dressing-gowns/mens-cashmere-dressing-gown-duke-pure-cashmere-navy.html


	48. Danger In Sanctuary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this would be an appropriate time for pitchforks, or wait till next chapter for shit to really hit the fan. Either way, enjoy. :)

“Now look what you’ve done,” Seto grunted, thrusting the glass into your hands. It was a Pyrrhic victory as you watched agile fingers turn over the device and removing the battery. He held out the device with vodka tricking through the keys over the edge of the bed; fingers clasped around the screen.

“Seto I’m so sorry,” you squeaked. You debated if it was prudent to inquire whether his work was saved or backed up elsewhere, but you weren’t certain you wanted to find out the answer, no convey the question in a way which was patronizing to the control freak who was infinitely better versed in the field of technology than you.

A deep line forming between his brows, smouldering sapphire disappeared momentarily behind wrinkled lids. His fingers tightened like vises against the darkened screen, so much so that you feared they would gouge right through. “Go have a shower,” he seethed through his clenched jaw, “you’re a mess.”

Correction, you smelt like him; whiskey, warm cologne and the lingering musk of his sweat on your skin.

With a cautious nod of your head, as if to acknowledge his words, you set the glass on your nightstand before slipping away from the bed. Halfway around the bed, you heard a heavy thud behind you, transfixing you mid step. Gingerly looking over your shoulder, certain connecting with those sapphire eyes now would petrify you, you discovered the sleek black laptop discarded on the floor, resting on its screen and keyboard as if a tent.

Throwing the duvet off he stood, shedding his damp dressing robe over the bed. Even from an angle you could see his glare, sharp as diamonds, in his own way, mourning the ruin of his laptop. As his gaze lifted, you made haste to disappear in to the en suite bathroom before the menacing glower was turned on you.

“I’m sorry,” you called from the shower as you heard the shuffle of his footsteps outside the cubicle. “Is it okay?”

“ _It_ is liquid resistant, not liquid proof,” he pointedly informed. “You’re lucky you’re you, had it been anyone else — ” His sentence was punctuated by the crushing of some plastic bottle as elected not to finish conveying his hypothetical intentions. It dawned on him that it could have been received by you as an indirect threat and the last he needed to do was reenact your childhood.

“Seto I’m really sorry, was your work backed up at least? Are the files salvageable?”

“Who do you think I am?” he snarled. “Of course they were, my personal laptop is directly linked to the Kaiba Corp. mainframe.”

“That’s a relief,” you murmured. Deciding his mood had resolved to a manageable temperament, you dared to add, “I’ll buy you a new one.”

You heard a low, derisive chuckle through the pouring water. “I built it myself,” Seto apprised, “even _with_ all your money, you can’t just _buy_ it.”

  
...

  
You left the bathroom to find an empty apartment. He wasn’t answering his phone. Fear settling over momentarily placated nerves, you brushed on a coat of foundation and eyeliner before stumbling into - in the most un-graceful manner possible - black striped, ivory kimono dress. The black ribbon at the waist was sorted into a pitiful knot as you attempted to leave the apartment in bedroom slippers.

Behind the front doors you discovered a group of men in black, two of which you recognized as Isono and Seto’s personal bodyguard whose name you’ve never properly caught. These were his best men.

“Where is he?” you demanded, disconcerted by the posting.

There was an odd familiarity to this, as if you had seen all of this before. And in response, the source of your fear changed, instinct dictating that Seto was in danger somehow. In fact, you knew he was in danger; you were so irrationally convinced. And yet, you had never witnessed him in danger...right? You grew hysteric.

“I’m afraid we can’t let you leave Mrs. Kaiba. We’ve been given orders to keep you from leaving,” a guard stoically informed. Which was just as well, you didn’t have a comprehensive idea of where you were planning to go.

“I don’t believe that’s the question I asked,” you returned, “besides I don’t work for him, nor do I belong to Seto. My husband can’t keep me here if I want to leave. Also, last I checked, this is my apartment, and what you’re doing if I decide is trespassing. And it just so happens that I’ve decided you’re trespassing. I’m calling my own security.”

“Mrs. Kaiba,” Isono intervened pleadingly, as the other guard was reduced to a stutter, “understand that this is all in your best interest.”

“What’s in my best interest? What is this about?”

“Mr. Kaiba should be back soon,” Isono negotiated, “please wait to ask him.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Mrs. Kaiba,” he attempted to reason, “please understand our hands are tied.”

“Bring him here,” you grit your teeth “wherever the hell he is. If I don’t see my husband here within the next fifteen minutes, I’ll have you removed and look for him myself. Fair?”

You wouldn’t wait for an answer as you slammed the door unapologetically in his face. In response to the pounding of fists and disembodied voices pleading with you to calm, you retrieved a timer from the kitchen, and through one of the doors opened just a crack, you tossed the device counting down from fifteen as if it were a lose grenade.

“Thirteen and a half minutes,” you reminded as it landed by the feet of the men in the corridor.

Like husband, like wife, Isono mentally noted, abandoning his post in search of his boss. He was reminded once again of the caliber of woman it took to tolerate being in a marriage with Seto Kaiba.

...

  
“I heard you’re throwing a tantrum looking for me,” you heard Seto’s cool yet irritated tone echo through the entrance hall. “What’s gotten —”

Swinging around the corner of the living room, you launched yourself at him, calling his name with a sense of urgency.

“Are you alright?” his brows knitted, concern pooling in his eyes, reciprocating your embrace albeit hesitantly.

It was then you noticed his clothes felt damp; damp with sweat, and his face was flushed with heat.

“Where were you?”

“Where does it look like?” Seto husked. “At the gym,” he deadpanned at your quizzical expression. “What did you need?”

“After drinking all that scotch and vodka?” He said nothing. “After all that sex?” His countenance remained impassive, waiting for you to state your reasons. “You weren’t answering your phone, I was worried.”

Sighing, he rustled your hair. “And now you need another shower.”

“Should we go out for dinner?” you bubbled as you felt him relax.

“We should order in, it’s too late now,” he dismissed, walking past you in the direction of the bedroom.

“It’s Seoul,” you whined, “it’s never too late.” You pursued him through the living room to the bedroom.

“Seto, why am I under house arrest — or what did you even mean by that?”

Shoulders tensing, he turned with an ominous expression to you. “Trust me and don’t ask me why.”

“Is everything alright?” There was panic on your face. You were panicking. This was the opposite effect of what he had intended.

“That,” he sighed, “constitutes as asking.”

“You can’t allude to the fact that something is so terribly wrong that we need a team of twenty something bodyguards but not tell me what it is. And I haven’t asked this from you but why do you sleep with a loaded gun under your pillow? The safety wasn’t even turned off.”

“Let’s just say I pissed off a guy and he knows you’re my best leverage.”

“Oh my god,” you gasped. “What the hell did you do? And — wouldn’t Mokuba be better leverage?”

“Mokuba knows enough self defence to take care of himself, so between the two of you, he knows I would come for you first.”

He was manipulating his charm to achieve that exact effect in a way he never usually did with you, sure, the suave bastard, but the realization wouldn’t stop you from melting to a puddle, after all, he was saying he would come for you before his brother. Still, the first thing at the tip of your tongue was, “But I can shoot a gun!”

“Do you have a gun on you?” Seto blandly inquired, pulling his shirt over his head.

You must have seen that wiry physique and those broad shoulders; the accumulated result of years of training and discipline a hundred times over, so perhaps it was his present behaviour, the sweat sodden skin the peeling fabric revealed or the combination of both which prompted your next sequence of actions.

Sauntering over to him, you threw your arms around him. Cocking your head to the side, an innocent smile you knew was his weakness gracing your lips, you spoke, “That shower you said I needed, you want to give that to me?...Hubby?”

His eyes grew feral, an arm anchoring beside your head, he pushed you flash against the wall. Sparing a glance over your vermillioning face with sharp sapphire eyes, he crushed his lips against yours.

“Don’t ever try disarming me like that,” Seto threatened, “you won’t like what you get.”

Garments were shed; a trail of breadcrumbs leading to the shower from the bathroom door, and you found yourself pinned up against the translucent wall of the shower cubicle, your legs wrapped around his hips.

Seto was thrusting electricity into you; his arousal thumping your wet sex as his lips suckled your breast. A keening which distantly resembled his name left your lips unbroken. His arms were wrapped around you, palms digging into your back. Scalding water was pelting his, opaque vapour suffocating the air around you both.

He lifted his face from your breasts, burying it in the crook of your neck, husking your name under his breath. Your head had fallen back against the glass, parted lips gasping for air, as wave after wave, he drove himself up into you, a surge of pleasure assaulting your core.

Pulling away from the crook of your neck to meet your gaze, you could come just at the sight of him; his sodden fringe poured narrow streams of water over blue eyes at once dark and clear, his alabaster skin was pearled over with water, his muscular arms flexed and tense as they held you. You shuddered.

“Come for me,’’ Seto ordered, and with a piping scream, you did exactly that. “Good girl,” you heard him rasp through the thick of your delirium, your muscles spasming and melting to nothingness.

Collapsing into him as he continued to pleasure your trembling form, he whispered in your ear, “Agree to not leaving the house for the next few days while I have my men take care of business and we can do this all the time. I promise.”

You could feel Seto’s lips over your drenched hair. Another shudder. The thought of house arrest in a house with no servants didn’t seem so awful; on the contrary it was sinfully desirable if he was planning to follow through with what he was suggesting.

“What do you say?”

You nodded against him, drawing a victorious chuckle laced with dark and dangerous intentions.  
“I thought you would see it my way.”

Within the next few strokes you could feel his erection throb inside your raw walls, and gripping you like a vise, a maddened roar strained at the pit of his throat, he shot his warm seed deep into you, giving you all of him.

...

An uncomfortable clearing of the throat followed by a low voice addressing your husband drew your attention to the man behind you on the steps of the living room, shuffling awkwardly on his feet.

You were splayed over your husband as you sat on his lap. You didn’t imagine it was comfortable for Isono seeing his boss - for the lack of a more accurate portrayal - sucking his wife’s face with his hands up her dressing gown.

It was a common sight to see beautiful women on the laps of affluent businessmen, engaging in such carnal acts, but those beautiful women were never their wives, and the businessmen were never Seto Kaiba. His employer was of an entirely different species; half cyborg at least, Isono liked to joke, and despite knowing how human Seto was better than most, to see him acting on human desire was disconcerting. It felt almost wrong.

The television was playing some Japanese variety show, long forgotten before that particular program had even started.

Clearing his throat, Seto pulled up the silk bell sleeve which had slipped off your shoulder and expose an indecent amount of skin by conventional standards.

“Leave it here,” Seto motioned towards the coffee table in front of you, paying no mind to the comprising position.

As Isono excused himself, in his absence you questioned why Seto has not felt the need to move you off his lap.

“He already saw what we were doing,” he replied nonchalantly, “besides, he knows we are married, if he was surprised, he needs to ask himself what he thinks married couples do behind closed doors.”

“That’s an uncomfortable image.”

“What is?”

“Your employee imagining what we do behind closed doors.”

“Some of them don’t need to imagine, partitions aren’t entirely sound proof.”

“What?” You were mortified.

“After the white ball — forget it you don’t remember.”

“Oh no...oh no Seto, I remember. Oh my god, how could you?”

He would only smirk smugly as he reached forward for the brown paper package.

Through dinner you refused to move, cajoling Seto into feeding you on the condition that you wouldn’t probe him for answers on the supposed threat endangering you, among other things; see: inappropriate touching.

He didn’t appreciate being seduced that way, though as he was much too sore to act on his urges, he surrendered as a means of appeasing you and saving himself. Maybe in the early hours of the morning he would get his revenge.

As he held out a piece of honey garlic chicken to you at the end of a chopstick, the program cut away to a commercial you had filmed advocating against the stigma on mental health. Neither of you reacted to it; Seto had chaperoned you to the set when you shot it. By the next commercial, one where you were the spokesmodel for an initiative to raise awareness for children in child care institutions, encouraging fostering as the practice was frowned upon, Seto muted the television, turning his full attention to you.

“Any reason all you seem to be representing are charitable causes recently?” He held out a spoonful of fried rice, his other hand cupped under the spoon to catch falling grains.

“Well,” you mulled over as you chewed, “I almost died...and given this new leash on life, I thought I should spend it giving back to things that have affected the both of us. I have more money than I could ever hope to spend in my life, and after the incident, I’ve stopped caring for popularity and public vanity. There’s just so many other things that are more important.”

“Such as?” he gruffly questioned.

“You,” you beamed, “mostly.”

“You’re cloying.” He chewed on a spoonful of rice indifferently, hoping to conceal the elation your comment had inspired in him.

“Maybe, but what’s wrong with that? There’s a Buddhist saying that you could die before you exhale the air in your lungs, who knows how long I have before I’m actually gone. What’s the point of pretences?”

Seto grew suddenly somber. “Don’t speak so carelessly about things like that.” He turned up the volume of the television as the show resumed, desperate to escape the subject which evoked grim memories.

“No, Seto, what I’m saying is,” you persisted, attempting to pursue the topic to alleviate the tension, “I don’t know how long I have with you so I’m making the most of it.”

“Drop it,” he seethed your name. “That’s quite enough.”

You winced at the baritone growl.

Noticing he sighed, “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I couldn’t be upset at you,” you soothed, “you’ve done so much, and I’m not even talking about the heavy stuff like saving my life or all your transfusions which kept me alive or even staying by my hospital bed every day until I woke up.”

“Any man would do that for the woman they love. I had to do all of those things because I did a pathetic job protecting you in the first place.”

“Well I disagree,” you spoke softly, holding his face in your palm, “but I meant other things.”

“Other things?”

You offered him a small smile, nodding. “You...gave me the childhood I never had, if that’s not a weird way of putting it.”

“It is.”

You allowed a small laugh at the bluntness. It was always welcome. “I just meant - and I don’t know how much I’ve told you about how I grew up...”

“Most things,” he affirmed.

“Well, you took me out to get ice cream, cared for me when I was sick or crying, and,” pausing, you laughed again at the memory, “it pissed me off at the time, but you let me play in the dirt and come back with muddy boots and a stray cat. You didn’t kick me out of the house. These are all things I’ve wanted to do growing up but never had the...well anything.”

Seto hadn’t thought twice about doing any of those, and it surprised him immensely how it was those things you held close to you over all the more expensive gestures; over the jewellery and expensive shoes he’d gifted you.

“Why would I kick you out of your own house?” It was a statement more than it was a question.

“Either way, thank you.” You circled your arms around his neck, leaning against him. “I don’t feel so robbed anymore. It was all worth it since I met you. You asked me why I was advocating for mental health, because not everyone escapes those dark places in their lives, their head never leaves. With what little I remember of life before I married you, I don’t remember being happy. People like you are what people call saviours.”

“I’m not the kind of person who deserves to hear that praise,” Seto rejected sullenly, “I’ve done things you couldn’t live with.”

“It doesn’t matter to me, because I trust your judgement. I wouldn’t have wanted to raise children with you otherwise. I saw how well you took care of me and everything around me.

“And don’t think I haven’t noticed you’ve been drinking after I fall asleep at night. We both lost the baby Seto, you can talk to me, in fact, you need to talk to me.”

He remained silent, though he wouldn’t dispute your claims as he pressed his lips against your hairline.

He was predisposed to be a man of a few words, fewer when they were required of him, but through his gestures you had learned to understand him, and this was enough.

...

You woke up to sunlight streaming through the wall of glass, the pillars of morning light a stage for fine dust. In the far recess of your mind recollected that it was Saturday. You had both fallen asleep on the sofa the previous night, you understood, observing Seto’s sleeping form under you as you straddled him, a chocolate throw blanket draped over both of you. The television was still playing, anchors reading the morning news.

“Morning,” your husband husked, blindly pecking your cheek; his eyes still closed. His raspy morning voice was always your favourite thing to wake up to. It should not have startled you that he was awake; he was always awake. “I was wondering how long you were planning on sleeping in.”

“It’s only eight thirty,” you groused, having noticed the time at the edge of the news screen.

“Already eight thirty,” he corrected, “I have plans for you.”

A flush of heat coursed through your body, much to the satisfaction of your husband. A throaty laugh rumbled in his chest, against you. “Dirty girl,” he growled in your ear, “that’s not what I meant.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you denied, swallowing your lips.

“Excited because you have me and the house to yourself?” The dark mischief in his grin put the Cheshire Cat to shame.

“No,” you mirrored his grin, “but I can _feel_ you are.”

“And I have every intention of acting on it,” he grunted. “I’ve always wanted you on top, you did a good job last time too.”

...

Following the unexpected ravaging so early before breakfast, then the one after breakfast, half ten in the morning found you a pile on the floor, splayed over your husband.

“I wasted my time showering this morning,” you panted, feeling the erratic drum of his heart against your temple.

You received a distracted hum.

“Who are you texting so intently?” you inquired, irritated, as his blue eyes catching late morning sunlight looked straight past you, his phone held above you.

“My secretary.”

“Well could you do it after you’ve pulled out of me and possibly put some clothes on?”

Another hum.

“Seto!” His eyes darted to meet yours. “Can we maybe finish this before you start texting another woman?”

Calmly placing his phone down, he complied.

“Are you going to promote her to replace Yukari?” you asked as he worked on the buttons of his pants.

“I’m considering it.” Seto’s brows creased.

Succeeding the incident the night of the mansion gala, Yukari had not reported to work. Seto never explicitly disclosed her as the culprit responsible, but you suspected he knew you at least possessed an inkling regarding who was. The blood sample testing returned with traces of an A grade aphrodisiac, though it was classified as the variety of drug cooked up in a kitchen by underground dealers as opposed to one approved and circulated by pharmaceuticals.

Despite not having reported to work however, she had been captured on surveillance footage, returning to Kaiba Corp. following being sent home from the party. Her browsing history was internally corrupted, so her motives could not be deciphered with any certainty, though considering the scandal which ensued, it was fairly obvious what she had procured. Seto was convinced she had planned it from the very beginning, from the moment he had applied her to search for you that one afternoon when you had wandered out of his office to explore Kaiba Corp. only to find yourself in the clutches of your relentless admirer, Kaoru.

It has been a particularly brutal scandal, considering the severity of the implication, and the two gentleman involved, though reflecting on the degree of public affection Seto had been forced to indulge you with, you had secretly enjoyed the ordeal. You quite missed the spontaneous kisses and embraces.

“You’re daydreaming again,” Seto remarked, settling on the sofa with his laptop.

“I was just thinking about how much I missed your kisses.”

“Right,” he droned, “because you don’t get enough of those. I spoil you enough as it is. Now come here.”

Tightening the bow on the dressing gown you had borrowed from Seto, you meandered to his side, expecting to be rewarded for your obedience. Instead you were handed what resembled a partial helmet.

“Virtual reality helmet,” he elaborated, plugging the wire dangling from the apparatus to a port on his chrome sliver laptop. “Your company developed it. I haven’t been able to stabilize it enough for it to be used wirelessly, at least I rather not on you. My employees are expendable, you are not.” At the end of his explanation, he returned his attention to the screen, his fingers assaulting the keys at an incomprehensible speed. That must also be a laptop he built, you concluded; no device on the market could otherwise withstand that.

“Seto that’s an awful thing to say,” you scolded, as his words processed, appalled.

“Relax, I’ve also tested the wireless version. I simply rather not take the risk on you considering the occasional disorienting factor.”

“Still.”

“I have something to show you,” he expressed. “I’m going to scan the both of us in. Most of the characters you’ll see are non players but there will be some Kaiba Corp. employees logged in also, so don’t be alarmed.”

“It’s a Saturday.”

“What’s your point? I have employees working around the clock every day of the year.”

“Even on holidays?”

“Especially on holidays.”

“Seto that’s terrible, people should be with their families on holidays. I would be furious if you weren’t home for the holidays.”

“Not everyone has wives like you,” was his response, as he continued typing, a brief smile occupying his lips.

“I can’t let you leave the house, but I’m sure you’ll find this equally stimulating,” Seto advised. Standing, he removed the helmet from your hands and held it before you. A green beam of light shot out of the corner of the device, sweeping your form from head to toe. Returning it, he repeated the motion on himself with his own.

Leading you to sit beside him, he placed the helmet over your head.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Seto assured, activating the helmet. As the instrument whirred to life, draining your consciousness, Seto found your fingers lacing his own, tightening fleetingly before relaxing as you collapsed into him.

...

When at last the younger Kaiba entered his sister-in-law’s apartment, breathless and out of his mind, the living room was a smudge of grainy darkness; the dazzling, cobalt blue Seoul skyline in the window climbing to the ceiling a perfect picture, mocking him.

Feeling through the darkness for a light switch, Isono clapped on the chandelier for him. Under it, he discovered his sister-in-law and brother, spread lifeless over the sofa, the only signs of life the indiscernible rise and fall of their chests. Their hands were intertwined.

As Mokuba kneeled before his brother, trembling fingers reaching for his stiff shoulder, brilliant indicolite snapped open, meeting hazy charcoal.

“Seto!” the younger exclaimed, tackling him into an embrace.

There was terror and paralysis in those blue eyes. “No!”

“What is it?”

“No, this can’t happen,” the older spoke in a trance, moving his brother off of him as he sat up. Pushing Mokuba aside, Seto began bashing furiously at the keys of his laptop. “Give me my wife back, Wakamura you filth.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!
> 
>  
> 
> Her kimono dress: https://pin.it/kd3x5tqowmgzrq


	49. Cherry Petals and Fire Lilies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! For any duelling enthusiasts, this chapter and the next will be for you. For anyone who really isn’t into duelling, don’t worry, there’s still all the drama and angst. Thank you for Est for cleaning up the video game aspects of the chapter and for literally writing in some of the dialogue/ advise involving the duel monster jargon. 
> 
> Also, random, but I always thought a fitting theme song would be full moon by dreamcatcher for this game/ chapter whatever. I’m waiting for Est to disagree. 
> 
> Let me know what you think :)

  
You were standing in a limestone turret; the end to a metal and stone staircase spiralling into azure skies dusted with shavings of wispy clouds. Teetering to the edge of the unguarded archway, you found mountains of clouds far below your feet, forming mounds and crests of waves.

Leaning over the brink, you found arms materializing around you, pulling you into a warm chest.

“Careful,” your husband’s voice husked in your ear, “you can’t hurt yourself here but I still rather you not do that.”

“Seto,” you gasped, turning in his arms, the interrupted surge of adrenaline even more exhilarating.

“You should probably wear something more presentable,” Seto remarked, appraising his cashmere dressing gown you wore, “I don’t need my employees seeing the president of their partnering corporation dressed in my robe.” He wore a blue trench over dark pants and a dark shirt you noticed, changed from the lounging ensemble he had donned moments prior.

Manifesting a translucent menu beside you from thin air, he scrolled through the options. Settling on one, a pleated Tiffany blue dress cascaded past your waist cinched with a belt, the sheer cape grazing your wrists reminiscent of Roman goddesses. Matching blue, strapped heels lifted you, a dull gold strap secured against your ankle.

Lifting the skirt falling over your knees you marvelled, “It all feels so real,” you breathed, “the weight and everything! Even you...you’re you, exactly the way you are.” Your fingers danced over the side of his face, palm cupping his cheek. “I can touch you!”

You examined your own arms outstretched before you; skin rich and supple to the touch; the flesh of your palms slightly flushed and etched with lines, just as you remembered. Opening and closing your fingers, there was fine motor control though little sensation.

Seto merely watched on with amusement, before a throaty laughter escape his lips, his larger palm resting over yours against his face. “I take it you like it?”

“It’s a game right?” He nodded. “What kind of game?”

“When it’s finished,” he explained, “it will be an MMORPG which will be released on a worldwide scale.”

“That’s amazing, you’re amazing, you know that?”

The edge of his lip curled; you loved how the corner of his mouth wrinkled on the rare occasion he smiled. “I expanded on Kodama’s base model,” he apprised. “Of course, Kodama was developing a military tactic game and Kaiba Corporation is gearing it towards a fantasy quest RPG.”

“That’s still amazing, I have no idea how to do any of that. What do you do in this game? Teach me how to play!”

“Understandable, it’s not your field of expertise,” Seto dismissed. “As for what it is, it’s a duel monsters, fantasy crossover. Players can go on quests and challenge other players as well as non player characters through battles involving the special effects of duel monster cards or through regular duels to collect higher level cards. To advance to the next level, they need a deck powerful enough to defeat each level’s floor boss.”

“So...I need to know how to duel then?” You pursed your lips.

“You can tag team defeat a boss with a team, that is assemble a deck as a group and if your character has enough experience points, you can advance with the team you’ve formed.”

“I think I’ll form a team with you then,” you declared, clutching on to Seto’s arm. “You duel pretty well.”

Another warm chuckle reverberated against the stone walls of the turret. “Or you can learn how to duel,” your husband suggested.

Pouting you released his arm. “It was worth a try.”

“I’ll teach you.”

“I think I’ll pass,” you declined, turning to look out at the the garden of clouds. “The last time you tried, it just ended up with you destroying me three times over. I rather not relive that. I do guns not duel monsters. This place is nice to look at, but I probably won’t be very good at much here.”

You could feel his gaze warm on your back. Moving to stand behind you, he pressed his lips against your temple, his arm slipping around your waist.

“This whole place was inspired by you,” he husked in confession, sensing your dejection. He waved his hand and stars fell. With another wave of his hand, he brought nightfall, a dark universe to catch the stars. “Remind you of anything?”

“Those stars...that meteor shower!” He watched your face light up as recollection dawned. “It looks exactly the same, my god Seto!” Turning to clutch on to his shirt, you leapt in place. Your eyes remained fixated on the stars; his always on you. “You really...” It was difficult to remember what breathing normally was supposed to feel like.

Seto always felt an overwhelming sense of tranquility in your company. Perhaps it was your youth, or perhaps specifically, the unrestrained mirth which fizzled like an endless bottle of tonic as a result of that youth; arguably both. Beside you he was at peace, content, while constantly craving more of you.

He parted the clouds to reveal a grove of cherry blossoms spiralling up a winding path, a cluster of red roof-tiled houses; a rural village at daybreak huddled under the cliff side. You watched the stars melt into the stratosphere and the sunlight he drew from behind the clouds steal through the cherry petal canopy, painting vivid shadows on the hillside.

He tinkered with several lines of code on a screen beside him. Then, walking past you, he offered you his hand from just beyond the edge of the stone ledge.

“It’s alright, you’re not going to fall,” he assured, observing the perplexity contorting your expression. “If a player dies in the game or is too severely hurt to continue, they will automatically be removed from play and forced to wake up. You won’t fall, I’ve altered the program so you won’t, however, you can’t get hurt or feel pain in this reality, the worst the game can do is disorient you slightly upon regaining consciousness. Now come here.”

Your toes curled at the thought. “Seto I can’t.” Your expression scrunching, you motioned to step back further into the safety of the limestone belfry.

Reaching forward he pulled you into him; your feet ghosting over air as he caught you. Quivering arms latched on to him with desperation, while with one half open eye you dared to steal a glance at what laid below your feet. Nothing; there was nothing there besides open air to free fall. The outstretched arms of the cherry trees offering pink beds of blossoms would catch you only after you plummeted god knows how far.

A guttural chuckle rumbled against your trembling form. “You’re not going to fall,” he reassured, “this isn’t real life. You’re not afraid of heights, open your eyes. Tell me if you remember this place.”

Reluctantly forcing yourself to survey the hillside, your fingers vises against his arms; his holding up your form threatening to collapse under buckling knees, the memory you could evoke was a shadow of reality. You remembered cherry petals tangled in his fringe and his eyes a kaleidoscopic mirror for morning sunlight but everything beyond was a familiar void.

“It seems familiar.”

You recognized the disappointment which seeped into your husband’s face.

“I remember you here,” you hastily added, “I just don’t...”

“I proposed to you here.”

“I thought we had an arranged marriage?”

“You still wanted a proposal,” he plainly divulged.

A soft laughter broke from you. “I made you propose to me after we were married?”

“You didn’t exactly ask, you sulked around about it.”

“Did not.” You playfully slapped his chest giggling. “You always make me sound worse than I am.”

“I’m only being honest.”

“So what,” you asked him, paying no mind to how he was no longer holding you, “are you going to get on one knee again to jog my memory?”

“Would you like that?”

“I would like to remember being proposed to by you, yes.”

“I have a better idea,” Seto offered, scrolling through your player menu again.

Upon his selection, rosetting ivory tulle cascaded past your waist, the bead embroidered bodice bound under the bust with an oversized satin bow.

Meeting his gaze with bewilderment, you waited for an explanation.

“I had the costume designer design a few wedding dresses,” he explained. “They won’t be released in the game, I just wanted to see them on you.”

Gaze falling, lips slightly parted, your fingers ghosted over the glossy beads adorning the neckline. “This looks exactly as I would...but you’re already used to this aren’t you. I’ll stop my gushing, it’s probably annoying.”

“Nothing you do is ever annoying,” he rasped, inspiring chills as he stepped forward, brushing the back of his knuckles over your exposed collarbones. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” you blushed, eyes suddenly finding interest in your fingers fiddling with a hem of the wispy tulle.

“Look at me,” he ordered, pulling you into him with an arm around your back, the other tilting your chin up in time to meet his lips.

A flurry of sparkles enveloped you in his embrace as embellished organza replaced the dramatic rosettes. Tulle bishop sleeves materialized over your arms, cuffing with silk buttons at the wrists, while embroidered sparrows and sequinned roses pinned over the illusion neckline and sheer bodice.

Stepping away he was mesmerized. You could elevate a burlap sack to appear attractive, he knew, so in a wedding gown you were the embodiment of ethereal. And you were his; there was a sudden tightness in his chest. It was greed, a yearning desire clawing at him to claim more of you. He watched you spinning on thin air, throwing the flaring layers of the skirt into the wind, only for it to dance back to settle around you. It seemed to amuse you immensely. You were already his, he didn’t understand his longing for more.

“You should wear this on our wedding day,” he declared. “I’ll have a physical version commissioned.”

Distracting from your fascination, you met his gaze. “I can’t wear this, you’ve already seen me in it. That’s bad luck. The groom can’t see the bride in her wedding dress before the alter.”

“Nonsense. That’s an old wives’ tale.”

“Oh come on, could you stop being so strict at least for our wedding Seto?”

His eyes glanced down at both your hands lacing through the fingers of his left hand. They were cold, as your fingers always were. His mind drifted to how he always held your hand after the accident, hoping that maybe, by some miracle, your fingers would close around his; even a delicate twitch to remind him you were alive would have gotten him by then. So he closed his fingers around yours in a firm grip.

“What other —” he bit back the word ridiculous, “— traditions do you want to follow?”

“Well, I want to have something blue, borrowed, old and new walking down the aisle...”

“What?” He could evoke no familiarity for the concept.

“It’s a western thing mostly I think. A bride is supposed to have those four things on her on her wedding day. There’s a whole poem on it that I can’t remember now.” He didn’t care for the poem.

“My blue eyes card fits three out of those four requirements,” he mused, “and as for the fourth, everything else on you will be new.”

“You’re not serious,” you laughed, “you want me to carry your duel monsters card walking down the aisle?”

Seto offered you a blank expression, failing to see the issue.

“You’re such a dork, you know that?”

The young chairman’s eye twitched. He was nothing like the dorks he had attended school with. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” you sighed, catching your breath from your unceremonious fit of laughter, “you’re charming, more so every minute.”

He was uncertain if that was a compliment but even if an insult, it was easily forgiven and sooner forgotten as he watched you. You were taking cautious steps away, skirt lifted, hunched forward, eyes carefully memorizing how your heel met thin air; defying gravity. He watched as a twist of your ankle convinced you that you were falling, and how with a squeal you ran back to him, falling into his arms. He never fathomed regarding anything as cute, after all, it was a ridiculous sentiment, so why could he not define what he had just witnessed as anything but?

You could do no wrong in his eyes.

“So I take it you’re not wearing this?” Seto questioned, peering down at you.

Straightening up you shook your head. “No, but now that I know what you like, I’ll try to find something similar.”

He grunted in acknowledgement.

It was madness to love someone this much, it occurred to him as he tucked a stray tendril of hair behind your ear; and he would change nothing.

...

“Do you want me to wear a chapel veil or a cathedral veil?” you asked him as you emerged from a wooded patch overrun with bluebells onto a dusty cobblestone path giving way to a dirt road in the distance.

“I have no idea what that means,” he groused, maintaining a thousand years stare.

He was holding your hand.

“Long veil or longer veil,” you translated, before deciding on your own. “I think I want a cathedral veil and a blusher. I’ve always wanted my future husband to lift it off at the alter.” Seto would only shake his head at the one-sided commentary which he was more acquainted with than most would assume, having lived with his younger brother for so many years. “On a side note, I’ve been walking in heels for hours and I feel nothing. I approve of this place.”

“The sensory neurons have been desensitized so as to not cause actual damage to the player’s physical body during game play. They’re present enough to sense basic things such as weight and textures of objects, but not enough to sense actual pain in battle.”

“So that’s why your kiss felt lame earlier.”

“Thats what you got from that?” He spent a few moments of silence brooding over the insult before leaning into you with a devilish smirk. “I can always make it feel better elsewhere.”

Squealing you cowered. “I think you’ve made it feel better enough this morning.”

“And you’re supposed to be innocent,” he rasped in taunt, straightening to his full height.

The dirt path led way to a fairground, pastel striped tent stalls erected on either side.

“No way,” you gasped, looking up at him, “you recreated the whole fair too?”

“For the most part. If you notice —”

Disinterested in the lecture he would surely deliver, you had already escaped to explore the stalls. Seto wasn’t particularly offended, in fact, the curiosity and intrigue was welcome.

Eye drawn to a familiar face, you walked towards the dipping tent of an older woman, her hair greying in streaks. “Woah - it even looks like her. Do you have the right to use people’s face like that without their permission?” you inquired, regarding the old vendor labouring over the deep fried and steaming concoctions surrounding her.

“Most of the non players you see are computer generated by an AI system. As for her, it’s not like she’ll ever play the game,” he scoffed.

“How can you be sure?”

“To play it she would need to purchase it. I doubt she can afford a virtual reality helmet and membership, especially not one released by Kodama and Kaiba Corp.”

“Newlyweds I assume,” she cooed, just as you remembered, “what can I get you two?”

“What do you have?” you asked, curious what a street food vendor in a virtual reality would have to offer.

“Takoyaki, okonomiyaki, baked sweet potatoes, Chinese pork dumplings, grilled squid. What would you like dear?”

“Before you get excited, you can’t taste anything here,” Seto advised. “Taste and smell we’re still working on.”

“Takoyaki is fine,” you told her, before turning to your husband. “How do you pay?”

“Players earn coins the same way they would earn experience points; through games and quests,” he explained, exchanging a handful of gold coins for a serving of virtual takoyaki. “The game was designed with intent of being a reality where players could live, in the sense that they could build or purchase residences, form virtual relationships, form guilds and alliances,” he added, handing you the deep fried octopus and continuing down the dirt road. “The intention is for the game to evolve in a way which would be addicting to players. Through developing a devoted online community, we will encourage loyalty and player retention.”

“You’re attempting to create an illusion of reality - a better reality,” you observed, a hint of accusation in your tone.

“Essentially, though I fail to see what’s so repulsive about it.”

“It’s just, I feel like you’re disconnecting people from reality only to reconnect them under your own terms,” you remarked. “It sounds almost counter productive, if we are not considering the profitability of it. Do you realize how many young adults this will take away from families?”

“I don’t see why you can’t choose your reality. This is better than toiling in a mundane state of existence.”

“Are you going to spend all your time in here?”

“My reality outside of this isn’t tedious anymore.”

“Anymore?”

He would only offer a vague hum in response, walking on with his hand in yours.

  
On the path you met a young man. He could have been no younger than you, though no older than Seto. His fingers threading his short, bristled black hair, his palm was soothing his neck craned in the opposite direction, confused. At the sound of approaching footsteps, he looked over his shoulder, evidently having expected someone else.

“I don’t think I have a high enough level to buy that spell card,” he expressed, turning from the vendor stall, away from the grimacing old man you assumed was a non-player. As he turned, light hazel met harsh blue, and for a moment he was transfixed, before falling into a deep bow. “It’s an honour to finally meet you sir - Mr. Kaiba, sir!” the boy all but shouted, as if he had just been faced with his commanding officer in the military.

Though perhaps, your husband was infinitely more imposing. The first you had seen him waking up, youh had felt compelled to bow down under his stately aura also.

“Who are you supposed to be?” Seto scowled.

“I’m one of the game testers sir,” he eagerly announced. “I’m a computer sciences major from the university of Tokyo. I was really inspired by the lecture you gave earlier this year on the possibilities of virtual reality.”

His enthusiasm was excruciating and cringe-inducing, if only because of your husband’s low tolerance for high doses of fanaticism. Your dramatics was all you had ever witnessed him tolerating, let alone returning with some degree of civility .

“You’re from Todai?” Seto instead raised an eyebrow, interest seemingly piqued, or perhaps it had been the stroking of his ego which had intrigued him.

The young man nodded, and Seto appeared pensive for a moment. “And what exactly is your judgement?”

“I - I beg your pardon?” The boy looked petrified. Critiquing the game too severely would be a direct insult to Seto, and refraining from it would compromise his internship for his failure to accurately analyze the gameplay. Either would inspire Seto Kaiba’s infamous wrath and not a single human on the planet would wish to subject themselves .

“I don’t like repeating myself.”

The young man looked as if he would cry.

“Mr. Kaiba,” another voice interrupted from behind, oblivious to the present tension. “We didn’t think you and Miss. Komei would be —” The words fell away from his mouth as you both turned; his expression crumpling. “You were with your fiancée,” he corrected himself, pale, greeting you by your maiden name, “I see. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Yes,” Seto snarled, “my fiancée, and the president of Kodama.” He allowed a moment to discompose the older gentleman - a programmer you deduced from the bold lettering on his lanyard - with his unforgiving glower before adding, “And would I be holding my assistant’s hand you moron?”

“No - no sir, of course not,” the man stammered.

“And for your information, Komei was fired weeks ago.”

An expression of bewilderment clouded the gent’s face before he nodded slowly, accepting what had been said as fact.

“Has the interaction feature been fixed?” Seto inquired, glancing over at the vendors.

“Most of the bugs have been - have been removed from the code,” the programmer stuttered, “there’s still a few minor errors to be ironed out.”

“Behind schedule as always,” Seto stated disinterested, continuing to study the fairgrounds. “I’m certainly not surprised. I don’t know what I expected from you imbeciles.”

You flinched at the callous remark, observing as the exchange progressed how he transformed to be a different man when he interacted with others; your Seto Kaiba and the Seto Kaiba the world knew were not at all the same man. This Seto was a difficult man to digest and it was impossible to imagine him in love, and of all people, with you.

It seemed beneath such a powerful man to fall asleep on the sofa with his wife and wake up late on a Saturday morning; too trivial to eat take out with her in simple pyjamas while watching a variety show he didn’t care for, only because you had insisted on it.

Your Seto catered to your every whim, while the world catered to his.

The thought of having to take responsibility for such a man was overwhelming.

“I want it completed before the start of next week,” you heard him demand, before seizing your hand in his again and marching away from the group of employees starting to gather.

“Why did they think I was Yukari?” you asked your husband.

“Because she was my EA,” he blandly responded, either unbothered or oblivious to the jealousy weighing your voice, “she was assigned certain elements of the game to inspect.”

“I see.”

“It’s not what you think,” Seto clicked his tongue, acknowledging the tension. “It was a professional assignment. It fell under her job description. This was before I realized she was an A grade basket case.”

“Sure Seto, whatever.”

“We’re not doing this,” he groaned. “I didn’t bring you here to have an argument about my psychotic ex-secretary.”

“You still brought her here before you brought me.”

“I didn’t think you would find a skeletal design interesting, besides, I had no intention of showing you anything but the best,” he claimed, turning you to face him.

You motioned to respond when every pixel glitched with an eerie absence of colour, as if the whole world was suddenly a negative reel of film. Investigating the distortion, Seto’s arm shot out to shield you in his embrace, his face and body a mosaic of black and blue; a chilling, negative rendition of himself - as were you.

Tampering with your player profile, “It’s gone,” Seto cursed, “someone’s corrupting the system, I can’t log us out.”

Behind you, as the colours about you returned to their normal saturation, a consecutive sequence of beeps alerted you to the disappearance of the employees. In their wake, a series of floating notifications remained. ‘Player logged out,’ the translucent warnings read in amber.

An ominous silence reigned over the space, the clamour of vendors suddenly hushed to naught.

  
“Seto what’s happening?” you whimpered, clinging closer to him.

“I don’t know,” he confessed through gritted teeth, attempting furiously to re-write the code the program was running.

As he continued, the surrounding street stalls morphed into a valley at the foot of a mountainscape; the field an expanse of fire lilies, their crimson heads swept in the wind.

“I’m not doing that,” Seto growled, holding you closer.

Your player profile flashed beside you without trigger, automatic prompts accepting a duel you had not consented.

“What the hell is happening?” Seto roared up at the crystal blue sky. “If any of you halfwits are seeing this, shut down the program manually or get my brother to shut it down. There’s obviously a serious bug.”

“I’m afraid they won’t be able to do that,” a disembodied voice assaulted your ears in response. It was almost recognizable, the abrasive drawl, and yet alien. “ _Kaiba_.” Your husband’s name was spoken with such contempt that it inspired a shudder in you.

Uncertain of how to best react to the turn of events, Seto fell silent, expression setting into a deep scowl. Within moments, from the distance in the windy field, a scarlet hooded figure emerged from a glowing blue portal.

“I didn’t want to do this senpai,” the hooded stranger spoke, revealing a duel disk from under her draped sleeve.

Senpai...the word resonated in your thoughts...

“Yukari,” your husband’s voice descended to a derisive snarl, “then don’t.”

Maniacal laughter tore through the sky. “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned Kaiba. At least I’m generous enough to allow you to bury your wife in a place like this, instead of in a cold prison cell.”

“I see being a plague to society runs in the family Wakamura,” Seto scorned. “You’re not laying a finger on her.”

“Eye for an eye Kaiba, though I must admit it’s a shame. After all, she had nothing to do in any of this, and your wife seemed like such a nice girl.” Then his address turned to you, “Your husband is the kind of bad men people warn you not to get tangled up with my dear, because there’s always a price to be paid for marrying a murderer.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Seto hissed, his fingers splayed against the back of your head; burying your face in his chest, shielding you. “What are you going to do, duel her into submission? Aren’t you a little too old to have other people fight your battles? Be a man and come down here and face me yourself you filth, at least your father had that much honour.”

“What right do you have to speak of my father?” he thundered. “Understand Kaiba, that I have no intention of harming you. That would be kind. No, my only ever objective was taking something away you hold dear. You’re too obsessed with that young wife of yours to ever be able to recover from losing her. How would it feel to know that her only sin was being your wife?”

“Stop with the dramatics Wakamura, it’s getting old. Your old man was a treacherous criminal. My condolences for your loss but I had nothing to do with it. Now are you going to continue to pit women against each other in your war against me or are you —”

“As much as I would like to take care of business on my own, I have a deal with Miss. Komei, and I don’t know how you do business Kaiba, but I always keep my end of the bargain. She did bring me this entry port after all.”

“Surely a woman worthy of Seto-senpai must know how to play duel monsters,” Yukari’s silvery voice chimed over the roaring hum of the wind. The sky was beginning to darken, blue withering to faded ash. “Or did you lose that with your memories? ...How do I know? I had more access to your husband’s office than you may like to admit...and your husband too.”

“Stop spewing nonsense Komei. You can leave me out of your misguided fantasies,” Seto spat.

“The rules are simple,” she continued unaffected, “the loser will have their mind digitized while the winner walks free.”

“You’re a deranged mad woman, you can’t force her to duel you,” your husband barked.

“Please don’t insult me like that senpai, I’m doing this for us, I’ll show you I’m better. After you see what a pathetic duelist she is, you will — ”

“I’m not insulting you,” Seto scoffed, “I’m describing you. And I don’t care how many good moves you could pull out of your pathetic deck, you’re depraved. Now if you’re done explaining your little fantasy — ”

“If you try to take her and leave senpai, you’ll find that quite impossible,” she cried out in desperation. “The only way for her to leave now is to win or die.”

From your peripheral you caught a glimpse of her activating her duel disk and a similar device materialized on your arm, the centre a glowing blue orb.

“I’ll give you five minutes to assemble yourself a deck,” she advised, placing her own deck to shuffle. A translucent window unfolded, a collection of cards hovering before you in neat rows.

“Seto please do something, I still can’t tell the difference between a spell and a trap card,” you begged, clutching on to his arm. “I don’t - I can’t...”

“It’s impossible,” Seto husked, typing madly into the screen he had manifested. “I can’t get us out, and you’ll never win with those weak cards.”

“You can’t make me duel Seto, there’s no way.”

“There is no other way,” he stressed through gritted teeth, turning to you. On his open palm a stack of cards materialized. “Here’s my deck, this is the best I can do for you. Keep your head up, remember which duelist’s wife you are. The system is forced into a loop where unless you duel, it won’t trigger the exit sequence. This is no different from chess, maintain board and piece advantage and you’ll be fine.”

“I think it’s time you leave Kaiba,” Wakamura’s voice echoed. “I think you’ve meddled enough.”

“Read the descriptions if you’re unsure what a card does, carefully,” he pressed, fingers digging into your shoulder as he saw your eyes glaze to resemble clouded glass. Your mind was thrown into such disarray that his words were just more chaos of noise your brain was unable to decipher. “Listen to me,” he demanded; his skin was growing transparent, “there’s never nothing left to play, I made that deck, every card is meant to synergize with each other.”

He felt safe, he had always felt safe in some distant recess of your mind. The feeling had no beginning and no end; when had it started, you couldn’t remember; like many more things you wryly supposed. He did however; remember those things, he guarded them and he guarded you, but now, this impenetrable fortress was disappearing.

“Don’t leave me here, you can’t leave me here Seto,” were your only thoughts, fingers grasping at his disappearing arms.

“Get your head together,” Seto scolded, prying off your hands, though there was no real need to, “this is no time for weakness, you’re better than this.

“Remember, the only life point that counts is the last.”

“Seto you can’t, please,” you cried, “you promised you would protect me.”

Those last words were shards of glass, impaling him as he woke up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think :)
> 
> Her blue dress: https://pin.it/wkmeowcguyolel  
> Wedding dress reference: https://pin.it/wvc2yg4wowh2er  
> https://pin.it/dj4swxvtli7fbr


	50. Your Soul At The Tips Of My Fingers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so, here’s Part 1 of the duel. It was intended to be all one chapter but it got too long. Now this chapter was co-authored by Est in that he basically wrote the whole duel. It was adopted into the story and conversation but from the duelling and references, it’s all him! He also wrote out all the over the top duelling chants I’m living for in this chapter. So...Thank you Est for putting up with my poor retention of duelling strategies. 
> 
> I just didn’t account for how long the chapter would grow to be once his duelling outline and my conversations were combined so there will be a follow up chapter to this.
> 
> Keeping in mind, we still haven’t gotten to dealing with Wakamura Jr. so...this isn’t even the climax, though the end of the duel may surprise you next chapter :) 
> 
> Also, just a quick note, my discord app has been on the fritz so if I’m not getting back to you, that’s probably why. I get notifications like weeks late so...apologies for that!
> 
> Again, I’m going to suggest listening to Dreamcatcher’s Full Moon while reading this, or at least read the lyrics because it’s so fitting that it’s chilling.

“You see, the elder Kaiba has a — we’ll call it an obsession of sorts with that young wife of his,” the rotund man shrouded in late afternoon shadows said, “so much so that when she was unconscious following the accident, he abandoned his position as president and attempted to take his own life.”

“You should have taken better care executing that,” his younger accomplice accused, casting his bait over the edge of the cabin dock. It met the calm green water with a plop. “I don’t imagine it’s very difficult taking care of an unconscious girl on life support either.”

“This is no time to be pointing fingers Hideji,” the older man cautioned.

The susurrus of wind in the full trees and willows filled the silence between the two men.

“You think she’s better leverage than the younger Kaiba?”

Another pause. “I believe so. Without her, Seto Kaiba would be inconsolable. Without her he’d be a madman.”

“From what I’ve heard of him,” Hideji considered, “that could just as well make him a lose canon. Seto Kaiba is a dangerous man even with his wife grounding him.”

“Very likely,” the older concurred, “and that’s why it’s imperative we make sure the elder Kaiba agrees to the younger marrying my daughter and hands over the rights to his corporation before his girl is harmed.”

“I don’t care for your internal politics, but I’ll oblige. What does taking away the company do?”

“You’re not as sharp as your father are you? It’ll cut off his limbs. Without Kaiba Corp. Seto Kaiba is just a pretty boy with a bad attitude.”

“Don’t speak about my father,” Hideji warned, directing a pointed glare up at his companion. “And I doubt it’ll do much if the man is hell bent on revenge. He didn’t always have that company.”

“Well that’s your end of the bargaining to take care of.”

“I heard the girl is expecting his heir?” Hideji inquired.

“She is.”

“Then losing them both will be all the more devastating for Kaiba to watch.”

...

“You’re pathetic, and weak,” Yukari shunned. “In the end, all the so called _Nation’s First Love_ is, is a coward hiding behind her husband to protect her. You’re a useless queen.”

It occurred to you that your fingertips were grasping at air, he was gone, and in this reality not a trace of his scent or warmth lingered. In such a perilous circumstance, yearning for a sillage seemed senseless, though sense in itself didn’t seem to be a factor in the equation of this whole reality.

“You’re a thorn in his potential and ambition.” Her assault continued. “He needs a stronger woman standing by him, not the snivelling mess that you are. _Look_ at you.”

It was tempting to be convinced that he had never existed in this reality, had it not been for the sharp edges of his deck etching into your flesh. The sensation was acutely more palpable than when your palm had cupped Seto’s face.

“What is your problem?” you cried over the roaring wind engulfing the lily field. “If you loved Seto as much as you do, you wouldn’t be doing this. What you are is obsessed. He’s not some prize to be had. Hearts can’t be acquired or colonized, they come to you. A person coming to you is one of those most amazing things, you can’t win that sort of thing in a children’s card game.”

“And he came to you did he? Stop trying to be sickeningly righteous to the very end. Your holier than thou attitude is what made me hate you in the first place. And a children’s card game? You’re looking down on Senpai’s game and think I’m less than you for being better at it than you for it. You don’t deserve his deck and you don’t deserve him.”

“No, what I think you are is insane for trapping me in here and forcing me to duel you. Why don’t you come at me in the real world with a gun and I’ll gladly oblige in putting bullet holes in your vitals.”

“Impressive speech from the girl who can’t remember the man she’s begging to have protect her.”

“If I die here,” you told her, “I have a husband who will remember me. And if I don’t, I have a husband who is waiting for me. What do you have waiting for you Yukari?”

“So you admit it then,” she cackled, “...that you’ll die here.”

“I like to go into things without so much overestimation of myself that it blinds caution. If nothing else, your hubris will be your downfall.”

“Cut me the crap, you’re just spewing nonsense because you’re afraid. You’re practically shaking.”

“Enlighten me on something would you.” She studied you with narrowed eyes, waiting for you to continue. “What is it like being just another face in the sea of women falling stupid for him? I wouldn’t know you see, Seto’s loved me for as long as I can remember.”

This was all adrenaline, pure pretence, feigning confidence you didn’t possess a shred of. This was perhaps your greatest role; a character you needed to make most convincing.

Under it all, the greater fear; what would your husband think if you failed, failed with his soul and strategies at your fingertips? Would he still be waiting for you? In some regard, death seemed a justified consequence for besmirching such a revered duellist’s deck with the shame of loss. You certainly couldn’t face him after defeat. And yet, at the base of it all, it was just a card game. It was impossible to fathom such high stakes suspended on a children’s card game.

When had things begun to go wrong? You refused to believe it was at the conception of the marriage.

The cry which ripped out of her throat was shrill and piercing. “How dare you, you little slut!” she screamed. “I’m going to make sure you never touch him again!”

With a trembling breath you placed your deck into the slot of the duelling disk. Her words no longer disconcerted you, her derision and threats a dull hum behind the blood pounding in your ears and heating your face. There was no place beyond rock bottom.

“How do we start?”

“We flip a coin,” she answered. “Obviously.” Producing a gold coin, she launched it into the air with a flick of her thumb. “Since I seem to be the only one with a functioning one, I call heads.” Catching the coin on the back of her palm, she grimaced. “Tails,” she divulged. “I hope I don’t have to explain what that means.”

It meant you needed to draw. This much you could manage. You drew your first card, then a second. Three. Four. You didn’t think it was possible for your palms to be sweating when the appendages were nothing more than a collection of glorified pixels. You met those callous eyes as you drew the fifth. There was a heart attack in your throat. The cards were all in Latin. You wondered if it was possible to experience an aneurysm suspended in virtual reality.

Eight thousand life points each.

You tried to revisit your husband’s last words. You could only draw the motions of his lips in your mind.

Pot of greed, you recognized the wicked grin of the distended vessel. Draw two cards, it read. It was the easiest to interpret.

With seven cards in your hand, two of them monsters, you noticed one was a Blue Eyes White Dragon, the other cannon fodder. The descriptions of the remaining cards continued to elude you, as did the window prompts the game offered. What exactly did it mean to be _removed from play?_

Reading, and rereading the descriptions did little to acquaint you with their functions, and even less still on how they interacted with each other.

A defiant tremor coursing through your fingers, you resorted to sifting through the contents of your extra deck. There were more Blue Eyes variants than you had imagined. The existence of an extra deck you had never considered. Your words were a silent whir under your breath as your eyes glossed over each of the card descriptions; nothing registered.

“Did third grade reading comprehension not cover the words on the cards, or did you drop out of school to whore yourself out to billionaires before that?”

“I was homeschooled if you must know,” you droned. “But of course what would you know about being born a plutocrat.”

She would only offer a contemptuous scoff.

“Keep rolling your eyes Yukari,” you encouraged without distracting from your cards, “maybe you’ll find a brain back there. I say with optimism.”

The rest of her drawl you muted to a dry thrum at the back of your mind, pouring what little attention you could summon over the function of the cards.

This was no different from chess your husband had said, except, it was difficult to remember ever playing chess. His words were hard enough to recall. What could you salvage from your treacherous memory of ever playing the game? Anticipating your opponent’s moves, if not in chess you convinced yourself, in corporate strategy was essential in securing the upper hand. What would a depraved woman with an obsessive adoration for your husband play? Certainly something that would impress him. A dragon? Your mind drifted to the pendant of a coiled dragon she had worn to the orphanage. That now felt as if it were eons ago. You needed to focus. Yes, she would play dragons, just like your husband.

...Or was that simply too predictable?

The clarity you had possessed moments prior from your supposed epiphany had dissolved once again to a obscure smudge of doubt and dead ends.

So learning to maneuver through your player profile in this state came as a small accomplishment. As you navigated your way to read the Duel Monster beginner manual however, the system promptly denied you access; the ice blue prompts flashing burnt amber.

An obnoxious cackle echoed from the distant corner of the field. “Does baby need her bottle? Yeah, you won’t be able to access that.”

You met her gaze, a smirk curling your lip as your next words assembled in your thoughts. “Do you not get enough hugs from Wakamura, Yukari? Your senpai holds me at night so I’m not bitter, but you obviously are.”

If it was some consolation, you mused sifting through your hand, at least there was no timer as there was in professional chess.

“Shut up and play your turn,” she seethed, fire spilling from her eyes. “Or I will have a timer added. I don’t have time to be your playmate all day.”

In your defence, you didn’t recall ever calling her out to play.  
Provoking the woman who could erase your mind with a swipe of her fingers didn’t seem the most intelligent play, if not also juvenile, so you elected for silence.

You needed to make a play now, though from what you could decipher, there wasn’t anything to be done. It was impossible to summon the Blue Eyes in your hand. You had no defences and it would be willing suicide to proceed to the next round with such a vulnerable field.

Reading the cards one more time, you set the Dragon's Mirror spell card face down and activated a second spell; Card Destruction. Disposing the remaining five cards in your hand as per the effect, including your Blue Eyes White Dragon, Yukari is forced to follow suit.

Also going by the effect, you must now both draw cards until you have the same number of cards you had on hand when Card Destruction was activated, so each of you draw five cards.

You then activate the effect of the second monster card that you sent to your Graveyard, The White Stone of Ancients. The effect reads, "If this monster is sent to the Graveyard, special summon one Blue Eyes White Dragon to the field directly from the Deck."

“I special summon my Blue Eyes White Dragon in attack mode.” It needed no convoluted rationale why the opportunity to summon the Blue Eyes White Dragon was immediately comforting; it was the closest manifestation to your husband you could forge for yourself in your defence. You wouldn’t deny that there had been some lingering animosity towards Seto for abandoning you in the thick of this pandemonium and yet perhaps for the first time it made sense why his instinctive reaction had been to thrust his deck into your hand. As chrome silver wings unfolded from the pouring pillar of gold, he was still here, you convinced yourself. It was as if he never left.

“How dare you call such a great beast’s name?” Yukari cried, repulsed. “How dare you attempt to command such greatness! How dare you act like you are him!”

“He is my husband,” you hissed. “I have every right to him. This - this whole delusional construct of yours that Seto belongs to you is nonsensical, do you hear yourself? Stop putting real lives in danger over a card game and a high school crush Yukari, pull your head out of your ass!”

“You have no respect for the discipline it takes to master this game. This just proves you don’t deserve him or that deck. It sickens me that he gave it to you...why would he give you his deck? You have no concept for loyalty and devotion. You couldn’t even bother remembering him!”

“He gave me his deck because he is my husband and he loves me — ”

“Shut up, don’t you dare ruin the sanctity of those words!”

“Yukari we are in love, and you’re trying to — I’m not the one ruining the sanctity of anything.”

“You have no right —”

“I’m not the one who drugged the man I keep repeatedly alluding to as the love of my life,” you remarked.

“I didn’t drug him, I was trying to make him see the truth.”

“And that he did, he still came to me that night.”

“ _How_...” she began in a piping pitch.

“...Dare I? You’re delusional Yukari, and I think it’s time you see that.”

“We’ll see about that.”

Shaking your head in condemnation, you proceeded to normal summon Vorse Raider and place the Torrential Tribute trap card face down.

  
  
As yours was the first move, you were unable to go into the battle phase. Not being well acquainted with the rules, you discovered this the hard way.

“And this is Seto Kaiba’s woman? Laughable,” Yukari croaked. “Not being able to attack on the first turn is the first rule in the book. If he did intend to keep you, maybe he would have taught you duel monsters better. You don’t seem to understand what an intrinsic part of his life this game is, the fact that you’re unaware tells me a lot about how he sees you.”

You had nothing to say. Perhaps the inherent problem was not in the marriage itself, instead that you didn’t possess the tenacious capacity to be such a respected man’s spouse. Or maybe it was as she said; you weren’t worth teaching and then by extension keeping.

“I end my turn.”

“He treats you like a child doesn’t he?” Your eyes flicked like darts to pin her across the field. “The way he talks to you, carries you, pacifies you; it’s how men treat children or better yet pets. He doesn’t look at me that way.”

“Which way is that Yukari?”

“Like I’m incompetent. But of course, senpai always liked his charity projects.”

She drew a card.

You would say nothing. You wished he was here to dispute her claims.

A card pinched between her fore and middle fingers, she raised her arm in a fashion so dramatic that it was difficult not to find comical.

"Let me take you to a special stage,” her voice echoed over the roaring wind. “Nation's Fairy! Behold! The inferno that engulfs my soul, my Heaven, reconstructed in virtual reality! Gaze upon its splendour! The glorious Dragon Ravine!"

“Okay, I’m sorry, are you going to make up a ridiculous chant every time you play a card because it’s really fucking annoying, and we are still on your first turn. I thought you didn’t have all day?”

“Silence!” She placed the field spell on her duel disk, and the earth split in two, dividing into a dark abyss devouring the field of lilies. You were forced to brace yourself, heels digging into the ground as you felt the molten core of the very earth tremble. You could feel heat rising from the chasm, though you only saw darkness; no fire, no lava. The tenacious fire lilies grew defiantly on the cliff side, parasites on the surface of the earth, as if some incurable plague.

She stood on the other end of the precarious rope bridge connecting you both, lily petals raining down as if it were a bloody storm. It was now sunset.

The earth continued to open, and suddenly you could see the churning amber casting it’s golden shadow up from the ravine.

“I hope you’re not scared of heights,” she roared with laughter. From the way she laughed, you questioned her sanity. “This field spell allows me to send one dragon from my Deck to my Graveyard during my Standby Phases. Since my Standby Phase already passed, I’ll be using the effect of Dragon Ravine on my next turn.”

What the hell is a _standby phase_ , you wondered.

Yukari then activated another spell card, Dragon Shrine and sends one monster with no special effects to her Graveyard. She chooses Alexandrite Dragon. The spell card’s effect offers her the chance to send a second monster to the Graveyard. She selects Red Eyes Wyvern.

You had been right in your prediction that her deck would follow a dragon archetype. The bitch was that predictable, though it was best not to allow one insignificant victory to blind your senses. There was still much to be done, you reminded yourself, let’s not lose sight.

Continuing her turn, she activates the effect of a monster in her hand. She explains that as you have monsters summoned to your side of the field while Yukari has none, she is able to Special summon Cyber Dragon in face up attack position.

Yukari sets one monster in face down defence position, and sets another card face down in the spell and trap zone. She has one card left in her hand.

At the conclusion of her turn, you wordlessly draw a card, bringing the card count in your hand to four.

Maiden With Eyes of Blue, your new card read. Unable to summon any familiarity for the card, you pause to read the description.

"If this card is targeted for an attack, the attack can be negated, and one Blue Eyes White Dragon can be summoned to the field from the hand, Graveyard, or Deck,” you muttered under your breath, attempting to absorb the words and form them in some sensible order in your mind.

You set your Maiden in facedown defence position and immediately begin your assault on Yukari.

Vorse Raider’s 1900 attack can't compete with Cyber Dragon's 2100 attack, so you order Raider to attack Yukari's facedown monster. Yukari's monster is flipped face up to reveal The Dragon Dwelling in the Cave, with a defence of 2000.

Raider leads a futile attack against The Dragon Dwelling in the Cave, and you sustain 100 points of damage.

As Raider’s blow is negated, a searing pain hacked across your chest. You imagined tasting copper on your palate. In that moment there’s suddenly a keen awareness of the dull throb from your heels coursing up your spine. The pain was tangible, and more so, it was crippling. You did not understand.

“Rookie mistake,” you could make sense of her grating pitch as you attempted to gather a semblance of composure. “Just like an amateur to waste your chances attacking with the weaker monster and causing unnecessary damage to yourself.”

“I’m not done,” you croaked, straightening your hunching body. “I attack Cyber Dragon with my Blue Eyes White Dragon!”

“And I activate the quick-play spell card, Book of Moon,” she countered. Throwing forward her splayed hand she activated the card she had placed face down on the field on her previous turn. Your Blue Eyes is switched from face up attack to facedown defence, halting the attack entirely.

At a loss for attacks, you follow suit with your own quick-play spell card, placing Enemy Controller, face down before ending your turn with three cards in hand.

Studying your field, both your Maiden With Eyes of Blue and Blue Eyes White Dragon were in face down defence position, leaving Vorse Raider as the only monster in a face up attack stance. As for spells and traps, you had Dragon's Mirror, Torrential Tribute, and Enemy Controller all set face down.

Shifting your eyes to Yukari's side, she had Cyber Dragon in face up attack and The Dragon Dwelling in the Cave in face up defence. You noticed her spell and tap zones were empty. Her field spell card Dragon Ravine was presently encompassing the field.

The burning pulse in your throat, your chest and in your gut was scorching you from the inside out.

Yukari's turn. She draws a card, raising her card count to two.

She activates the effect of Dragon Ravine to send one dragon from her deck to her Graveyard. She selects Red Eyes Darkness Metal Dragon. She then activates the spell card Graceful Charity to draw three more cards. Due to the effect, Yukari is also forced to send two cards from her hand to the Deck immediately following. She selects Lustre Dragon # 2 and Red Eyes Wyvern. Yukari once again has two cards left in her hand.

Anthracite orbs lifted under a web of lashes to meet yours; the wrinkle on the edge of her maraschino cherry lip you couldn’t decipher turning your stomach. It spoke of some gruesome end that smile - if one could call it that - and you shuddered.

Yukari removes her The Dragon Dwelling in the Cave from play. “It’s all over now,” her velvet voice sung. “From the abyss, the merciless fires of retribution dance. Its crimson truth lights the one true path. Ascend! Red Eyes Darkness Metal Dragon!"

The remark which had brewed in your throat to her chant was forgotten; something to the effect of _here we go again_ \- it wasn’t important.

Red Eyes Darkness Metal Dragon, with a piercing shriek rose from the gorge, it’s open, obsidian wings and grotesquely formed limbs, from where you stood was a truly gruesome thing to behold. Had you not been so convinced that its was the face of your death, perhaps you would have otherwise been in awe.

You dared to fathom how your body would writhe under the loss of two hundred life points...five hundred..a thousand...all eight thousand. You never imagined death would be a painful ordeal, that is, you had never pictured for yourself a painful death; though you supposed no one ever hopes for such an end. You had always believed you would die young, and with each close encounter, those convictions had been fortified, but had you accumulated such an immeasurable number of sins in your life that you deserved also a painful end?

You distantly registered that she had now also summoned Blizzard Dragon in face up attack position from her hand.

“Now I activate the effect of my Red Eyes Darkness Metal Dragon to special summon any dragon from my hand or my Graveyard for free,” she announced, distracting you from your thoughts, selecting Lustre Dragon # 2. “You see my dragon’s ability to special summon is reusable, once per turn. Doesn’t it just make you want to bury yourself where you stand?”

 _Seto, I’m really trying_ , you squeezed close your eyes. There was an all encompassing strain grasping at your muscle fibres, harrowing into your joints and weighing over your aching core.

“I see the strain of being in a virtual reality for the first time is beginning to set in,” she cackled. “Seto senpai used to bring me in here all the time. It should be hard enough to stand as it is, let’s see how you fare duelling and sustaining damage.”

“What the hell does that mean?” you growled. “Sustaining damage.”

She seemed ecstatic at the inquiry. “Oh,” she chirped, “it means that currently the desensitization of the sensory neurons put in place as a safety precaution has been removed from this reality. In fact, the synapses of the pain receptors have been opened, amplifying whatever pain would usually be felt in reality hundred fold.”

“Have you lost your mind?” you bellowed. “You could kill us both. I understand you hate me but surely you must have some sense of self-preservation!”

A mirthful giggle bubbled from her lips; against a reality foreboding death and decay, it was sinister. “I’m a duellist deserving of Seto Kaiba,” she said. “I can’t lose against a pawn. Enjoy this one - I would raise a glass if I had one - this one is on me.” And with that she ordered for her Red Eyes to destroy the facedown Blue Eyes White dragon.

Instinct overriding you, you throw out your arms before you in defence. The 2800 attack slicing through its 2500 defence, you winced as the beast groaned as it shattered. Lowering your arms, your cape singed from the dragon’s flames, for a moment you merely watched where the Blue Eyes had once laid. That was Seto’s card. More so than self preservation in that moment, your inability to guard his monster was excruciating.

She spared no time time ordering for Cyber Dragon to attack Vorse Raider. Raider’s 1900 attack is out matched by Cyber's 2100 attack, and is annihilated.

The resulting two hundred points of damage was the equivalent of a dull axe slicing raw and boiling flesh. You imagined - had this been real life, you would be sputtering blood. Two hundred life points, you considered, this was the extent of two hundred life points. You would be dead by a thousand, surely.

...But for now were still standing.

She had no mercy to spare, Lustre Dragon # 2 attacked in the next instant the face down Maiden with an attack strength of 2400.

“Is there a reason you chose a monster with zero attack points?” she scorned. “Or are you just projecting yourself on to your monsters?”

“This is my husband’s deck moron,” you wheeze. “And according to your senpai’s Maiden’s special ability, I can summon a Blue Eyes on to the field while negating a single attack.”

Your Maiden saved, though forced into face up attack position due to the effect, you summon the third Blue Eyes from your deck in face up attack position. A defiant smile crept your face at the appearance of the great beast.

Enraged by your move which rendered her Lustre Dragon # 2 useless for the duration of her turn, she orders her last monster, Blizzard Dragon, to destroy Maiden. The chrome blue monstrosity storms forward in attack, disintegrating the Maiden as if she were rice paper, powerless under an attack strength of 1800. Hailstorm of icicles rained down on you in its wake, impaling you.

Those eighteen hundred points directly subtracting from your life points you collapse forward; knees and fingertips gouging soft dirt, your form barely hunched above blood red lilies. You stifled a yell. There was maddening agony, it was the only way you could make sense of it, chainlink explosions detonating in every nerve and cell; schrapnels stabbing your every inch.

Her reedy laughter disturbed the air. “I’m not done yet my love. I use Blizzard’s special effect; one monster on my opponent's side cannot switch positions and cannot attack in the next turn. And I think...I’ll choose your Blue Eyes,” she drawled. “It’s almost tragic seeing such a legendary beast and deck in the hands of such an incompetent duellist. No matter, they will all soon be back with their master where they belong.”

Your fingers dug into muddy earth, fisting the dirt. You needed to stand, it was your turn. It was useless, your nerves were rippling fire, the slightest motion twisting the schrapnels you were convinced were buried in your skin.

“You’re weak!” she mocked from the end of the shaking bridge. “Is this all you can amount to? I knew you were pathetic but I must admit I expected a more formidable opponent out of you.”

Nothing worth having ever came easy, Seto would always say, and you supposed this marriage you had taken for granted all these months was something worth having. You tried to remember his eyes, bluer than the midnight sky and deeper than a calm ocean in love. You tried to focus on cherry petals and stardust falling in them.

“Even at the end of the earth I’ll be fine,” you mumbled, remembering old words, “because he’s taught me the meaning of love better than anyone else.”

“What are you spewing over there? Lines from one of your melodramas? You must be delirious.”

Straightening to your knees you drew a card. You now had four cards in your hand. The card was a quick-play magic card; Burial from a Different Dimension. “Useless,” you cursed. You had no monsters that were removed from play to bring back. “I attack with my Blue Eyes,” you began to say only to be interrupted.

“How quickly we forget,” she snaps. “Let me repeat for those who are too slow to comprehend; thanks to my Blizzard Dragon’s special effect, Blue Eyes can’t attack me. _Try_ to keep up.”

Peering up, your Blue Eyes was rendered a frozen sculpture; crystallized in ice. When had that come into play you couldn’t recall. Nausea was stirring your gut, aggravating a headache leaking a reedy keening into your skull. You felt like crying, but couldn’t give her the satisfaction. You chose to end your turn.

 _Seto, I’m really trying_ , you repeated in your mind, falling forward on to your palms once again, but all I am is a disgrace to your deck.

“You’re doing fine,” you heard his disembodied voice call your name. You stiffened. He was nowhere. “Can you hear me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do let me know what you think. Come with me at pitchforks for how awfully reader is faring against Yukari. In Est’s defence, he wanted to make her a pro.


	51. And She Would Bow Her Head to No One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, part 2 of the duel, and more internal politics. Enjoy. Also, just to throw Est under the bus, it was his idea to end this chapter where it did. So by all means, come at him with the pitchforks. XD

“Seto,” you breathed, desperate for him.

He hushed you, “I can hear your thoughts. Don’t talk.”

” _Where —”_

“I don’t have much time, listen to me,” Seto urged. “I’m coming for you. I love you. You’re too young to die. You have your whole life ahead of you, and we have a future together. I’m certainly not going to allow a band of thieves and lunatics get in the way of that.”

” _Seto I’m scared. I can’t do this. Everything hurts...and I don’t see an end to this...”_ Forgetting he could hear you, your train of thought continued, _“...And what future together? You never bothered teaching me this game properly because...”_

“Because there were more important things to do with you. Don’t let her get inside your head. You’re the most capable woman I know and therefore the only woman fit to be my wife. I chose you, you’re mine and I don’t want to hear anymore thoughts on whether you may never see me again, because I won’t accept that.”

“Are you ever going to quit snivelling and make a move or will you end your turn?” Yukari’s shrill drawl penetrated your thoughts.

_“Where are you?”_

“In your apartment. The pain you’re feeling isn’t real,” he told you, his hand clasping yours, thumb stroking the back of your palm, though you wouldn’t know. “You’re going to end this on your own terms. You can easily turn the situation in your favour with the cards you have on the field — ”

“ _Seto?”_ Silence. _“Seto are you still there?”_

He was gone. There was an ominous churning in your gut; in that moment you no longer feared for your life, only his.

“While being hunched on all fours like a grovelling mutt is a very fitting aesthetic for you,” Yukari taunted, “If you don’t make a move now, I will have a timer added. Forfeit or make a move!”

Without the guidance your husband had been on the verge of affording, “I end my turn,” you mumbled, attempting to salvage your wandering mind from worst case possibilities.

Staggering to your feet, your form hunched and swaying, you watched her draw a card. Of the four monsters guarding her field, not one possessed the power to challenge your Blue Eyes, even in its petrified state, in battle. So she chose to end her turn. Then it was your turn again; your movements mechanical, you also drew a card. You observed, somewhere over the course of the haze of turns, the lines of each other’s turns blurring into each other, that she had placed a facedown spell or trap card.

Yours wasn’t the only façade of composure. To Yukari, the stalemate was insulting, so much so that it incensed her. Though she wouldn’t indulge you with her madness, it was with seething passion that she watched her beloved senpai’s creature continuing to do your bidding. Even while subdued by her own dragon, it repulsed her to see his creature your faithful servant. By extension, she felt it was him serving you.

She stole a glance at the frozen beast; suspended in ice, unmoving, though she wouldn’t dare call it vulnerable or helpless, despite what the current state of the monster may deceive one to believe. That would be nothing short of asinine. She wanted nothing more than to see it obliterated, and yet she knew well that one crunch of the great beast’s jaws, should she be persuaded by foolish aggravation to wage an attack with any of her dragons, would render her creatures into fine ground dust.

She needed to make a worthwhile play before that stupid fairy successfully summoned one of senpai’s Blue Eyed variants.

Her eyes lifting from the beast, they glossed past sapphire she had earlier dismissed as lifeless. This time she winced. She was convinced those eyes had flickered, shifting to look at her. Were they always staring at her? The monster like its master possessed identical eyes of predatory blue. Indicolite infinitely deep that they were otherworldly and inhuman; menacing and merciless, and capable of isolating weakness. There wasn’t a soul on earth who would be willingly to endure being on the receiving end of that stare; it was enough to make blood flow back in one’s veins. As much as she loved him, those blue she could never properly look at.

She needed to end the Duel before the bitch actually pulled together a good move.

  
This was the calm before the storm; a foreboding feeling of clairvoyance was pulsing in your veins, an irrational sense of consuming fear pounding against the back of your eardrums, prickling your skin. You drew another card, it was the Deep Eyes White Dragon.

Her turn; she drew another card. Human instinct was a frightening thing. A delirious cackle swept across the field from where Yukari stood; the kind that chills you bone deep and curdles hot blood. At first, you wouldn’t believe such a grisly noise, so abrasive to the human ear could leave a young woman this beautiful. Her lips smeared with what could have been fresh blood, curled. Lifting her hand, she twists the card she had just drawn between her fingers, revealing its face. It was a large hammer crushing a group of green goblins. “Hammer Shot,” she announced, her lips contorting victoriously. “With this card, I can destroy the most powerful monster in face up attack on your field. And guess who that is?”

“Blue eyes...” you had hardly said before a gargantuan hammer the size of a house cast a shadow encompassing the field, its head plummeting to earth and shattering your frozen dragon; shards of ice rained over the field.

As your palpitating heart battled to recover from the appearance of the hammer, its scale terrifying, Yukari pursued her train of assault.

“And now I activate Red Eyes’s special ability,” she crowed, summoning Dodger Dragon from her Graveyard. She was now the commander of five dragons. Before it, left without your Blue Eyes White Dragon, the combined attack she would inflict would be nearly six thousand points of direct damage.

  
...

 

“You’re going to end this on your own terms. You can easily turn the situation in your favour with the cards you have on the field — ”

“Seto Kaiba,” an abrasive tone drawled exaggeratedly.

“Who the hell are you supposed to be,” the young chairman snarled, diverting his attention from his laptop screen. “How the hell did you get in here?”

“I have my ways,” the man dressed in a black suit equivocated. “Trying to help your pretty little wife Kaiba? Can’t have that now, can we?”

Electric blue eyes glanced past the sinewy man to his escort of fellow bodyguards.

“What the hell did you do to my guards? Where’s my brother?” Seto couldn’t recall when his brother had disappeared from his side.

“Nothing to your guards,” he apprised. “Your brother on the other hand...”

From behind the bend of the living room wall, three men revealed themselves, the younger Kaiba held at gunpoint. Surrounding them was Isono and his men, their guns aimed at the captors.

“Mr. Ashikaga,” the first man spoke with a foreign intonation, “would like to propose marriage and an acquisition.” He presented the young CEO with manila envelopes swollen with thick stacks of paper. “In exchange for your little brother, his hand in marriage, and in exchange for your precious wife’s life, your corporation.”  


Seto found cold steel pressed to his temple.

The apartment was suddenly a maze of guns held crisscross, pulled for conflicting loyalties.

...

  
“You know what’s coming.” Yukari bared her teeth in a manic smile.

“Ironic because I do,” you said, mirroring her earlier motion of flicking the card between your fingers to show her its face. “Deep Eyes White Dragon,” you introduced, “I activate its special effect; when any Blue Eyes monster is destroyed, Deep Eyes can be Special Summoned directly to the field from my hand to inflict direct damage to the opponent. Oh, and if you were wondering about it’s zero attack points, it can mirror the attack stats of any Blue Eyes monster in the Graveyard.”

A celestial beast descended down from the heavens, its lithe steel body a lustrous silver, marked with gleaming chrome blue. It’s wings; five in all, bound to a halo of blinding blue light flared as it landed, roaring in vengeance. You were in awe of your husband’s dragon, absolutely wonderstruck. You could now understand to some degree his obsession.

“I can also inflict damage for each Blue Eyes in my Graveyard, and I count three,” you told her, translucent mirages of your three slain Blue Eyes emerging behind you, preparing their onslaught against Yukari.

Her reaction was not what you had expected, the edge of her lip curling deviously. “So what you’re saying is, without a Blue Eyes to copy its power from in the Graveyard, your beast would essentially be useless?” Your breath knotted. She wouldn’t allow you to command another one of Seto’s dragons, mocking another great beast by forcing it to bow its head to your beck and call. “I activate my face down trap Big Burn to remove all monsters from both of our Graveyards from play.”

The heart wrenching parallel of watching the three dragons hovering above you disintegrate into fine powder carried away in the wind, the same way Seto has disappeared at your fingertips was almost unbearable. It tore at your heartstrings and devastated your resolve. It was as if you had lost him twice, then once more over again.

Her counter negating Deep Eyes’s direct damage effect as well its ability to copy the attack points of any Blue Eyes White Dragons in the Graveyard, Deep Eyes’s attack remained at zero; the beast groaning in pain as its power is subdued to naught. Her life points untouched, her legion of five dragons were still set to annihilate you.

“Now if you’re done acting up,” she snapped, grinding her teeth, “are you ready for this?...Because you are as good as dead.”

You couldn’t witness the sight of another one of Seto’s precious Blue Eyes falling at the hand of this madwoman. “I’m not done yet,” you rasped through your clenched jaw, the ache of her previous attacks and strain of being imprisoned in this reality wringing every nerve and muscle. You couldn’t be certain whether the summoning of Deep Eyes could potentially act as a trigger for a trap you had laid. Your play was ambitious at best, backed by pure desperation. “I activate my own trap, Torrential Tribute. Triggered by Deep Eyes getting Special Summoned to the field, this card destroys all face up monsters on the field, on both sides.”

Following an indignant growl, “What?” she roared, her expression contorting hideously. Her reaction was reassuring, it confirmed its plausibility.

You watched as Deep Eyes White Dragon flew back up to the firmament, disappearing with a deafening shriek, as a horrific rainstorm crashed onto the perilous cliffs you both were standing on, devastating the cliffside. By the sweep of the wind and rain, all five of Yukari’s dragons were ravaged to slivers. Their shredded corpses fell into the yawning abyss of the ravine, a blast of fire from the it’s depths shooting into the sky, incinerating the fallen beasts. The cliffs quavered under its thundering, engraving fissions into the precipice, knocking you away from the edge, and throwing you against the bed of lilies. And just as abruptly as it had brewed, the storm disappeared without trace, calming the inferno in its wake. The ravine a mess of upturned earth, rocks split open and torn lilies, what lingered was a sense of emptiness over the windswept cliffs; an eerie quiet, nothing of either of your monsters' bodies remained, not even their ghosts.

“Congratulations,” Yukari’s grating tone greeted from beyond the chasm, “on making —” she staggered to her feet, “— one good move...even if it was a fluke. That’s about all you’re going to make though, I can guarantee that.”

  
The transient feeling of relief and fleeting victory spoiled to dread. If it was any consolation, you were still alive, though now you began to wonder how much longer you would be, as you forced yourself to stand.

“I remove Exploder Dragon from play to special summon Red Eyes Darkness Metal Dragon from my hand.”

Once again, its grotesque face was the face of your death, you were convinced.

“Red Eyes Darkness Metal Dragon,” she chanted, “attack her life points directly!” You watched the gruesome red fire form in the beast’s open jaws. “Not even senpai can help you now. You’re finished.”

  
Twenty eight hundred points of damage. Your consciousness came to you lying amongst the lily stalks burnt to cinders, face and every appendage marred with dirt and ashes. You couldn’t breathe, no, it would be less agonizing to stop breathing. Those shrapnels were in your lungs, cutting every artery, writhing under scorched skin. Stop breathing...there was an enticing thought.

How long did you lay there, you would never know.

“—All you got? You’re weak,” you heard Yukari ridicule, her words fell over your ears in interrupted tangents. “From the first moment I saw you in that boardroom I wanted nothing more than to wring your neck and slam that smug expression into a wall.” Unbeknownst to her, those words were your fire. “Why can’t he see that you’re weak? You’ve done nothing but depend on him. You don’t deserve such a perfect man; such an accomplished man.”

You held your breath; the pain isn’t real. A recurring thought; it played on repeat as if a broken tape; you still needed to taste Seto’s cooking one more time, walk down the aisle to him and have him lift your veil, call him your husband one more time and hold his hand. You still haven’t seen him wear his wedding ring in public. You had your whole life to live with him; give him children, you wanted to give him many, many children like he had wanted, like he had asked. You wanted to be with him for so much longer; see his hair grey, this wasn’t enough...not nearly enough.

You couldn’t cry in this reality you discovered, but those tears, they beaded under your closed eyes, they bled, wetting your lashes as Seto watched on in horror, helpless.

You commanded your legs to stand. The pain was an illusion...so why did it feel _so fucking real?_

“I’m weak?” Your knees buckled, you were swaying on your feet, eyes glazing over in spite of how many times you shook your head clear. “Have you gone through two miscarriages Yukari? No?” You drew a card. It was a trap; Counter Gate. You laid it face down. “Well let me tell you, it really fucks you up. Waking up to the man you love more than your own life for him to tell you that you’ve lost his baby...again. It’s not the sort of thing you recover from. So until you’ve lived through something like that, don’t come for me calling me weak!” You hadn’t meant for your voice to inflect that way, nor disclose to her such intimate vulnerability, though you supposed you had not meant for much of the present orientation of your limbs. Autonomy over your limbs were currently a luxury as they bent to their will and accord, like limp noodles or the defective appendages of an abused doll.

You would start again at thirty one hundred life points. You would live.

You ended your turn.

Expression tarnished by dismay as you rose to your feet, she jeered, “You lost his babies because you’re weak and useless. I would never dare miscarrying an heir to the Kaiba family. You’re nothing short of a murderer.”

“Call me what you want...but...I would never allow you to have my husband’s children. I swore to myself I would mangle you if you touched him again and that’s exactly what I’ll do,” you husked, voice nothing more than a low growl as you hunched forward, your form on the verge of paralysis perpetually threatening to fall forward. You were breathing through gaping lips.

“Seeing as I still have every last one of my life points, I sincerely doubt that — ”

“Yeah well Seto says it’s only the last one that counts.”

“Don’t you dare say his name so carelessly,” she shrieked, activating the spell card Burial from a Different Dimension to return two Red Eyes Darkness Metal Dragons along with one Red Eyes Wyvern from outside play, back into her own Graveyard. “Now, Red Eyes, attack her life points directly again!”

Your blood was already boiling you from the inside out, threatening to ooze out; your skin blistered and burned.

“Fool me twice, shame on me,” you wheeze between laborious heaves of your chest, activating Counter Gate to negate her attack. Following the description on the card, you understand that this trap card also allows you to draw one card, and if it's a monster, that it grants you the ability to summon it. Resting your fingers over your deck you faltered, the joints of your fingers refusing to fold. Swallowing thickly, and clenching your fingers, you try once more, drawing the Maiden With Eyes of Blue. It is automatically brought to the field in face up attack position.

Incensed, she released an indignant yell. “I’ll remove the Red Eyes Wyvern in my Graveyard from play to resurrect my second Red Eyes from the dead,” she says, “and then I’ll end my turn.”

Your turn; you draw Assault Wyvern. “Cannon fodder,” you mumble to yourself, setting it in facedown defence position. Once again, at a loss for moves, you end your turn earlier than you would have liked.

Yukari's turn. That wicked grin was familiar and always unsettling. It stirred your burning gut. “Monster Reborn,” she tells you. “And I use this spell card to summon my third Red Eyes Darkness Metal Dragon from the Graveyard!”

You watched in horror as a third black creature resurrected from beyond the realm of the living.

She begins her assault in earnest. Your Maiden negates one attack per round, so the first two Red Eyes conjoin to lay waste to your spell caster. Your Assault Wyvern fell prey to the third Red Eyes.

On your next turn the cycle repeats; you draw Sagi the Dark Clown, and setting it down in facedown defence, you’re once again forced to end turn.

Yukari draws and activates a spell card by the name of Miracle Dig. She tells you it has the same effect as Burial from a Different Dimension, returning her three banished Red Eyes Wyverns to her Graveyard from outside of play. She commences her attack.

The shrill battle cry of the first Red Eyes shook the cliffside, plummeting loose rock into the ravine, its fire incinerating your clown. As Yukari called upon her second Red Eyes, commanding it into battle, you activated your facedown, Enemy Controller, a quick-play spell card that forces one attacking monster to switch to defence position, compelling the beast to hold its fire.

As third Red Eyes opened its jaws, it’s fangs sharpened obsidian, crimson hellfire swelling between them, it occurred to you that many years ago as a little girl, this was not what you had imagined as the face of death. The beast didn’t have a face stripped bare to a skull, it didn’t carry a sickle nor wear a black cloak though it was every last bit grotesque.

You tried to picture falling stars in blue eyes and cherry petals tangled in his fringe as you met the blood red flames.

It scorched your skin and in its crest of red your piping scream drowned, burning.

You woke up at the end of a charred trail of lilies, flames dancing on raw skin. For a moment the whole world was an ominous scarlet, then just the sky of the setting sun. It just hung there, listening to the piercing ringing robbing you of sound.

Your life point counter was at three hundred. You shouldn’t be breathing.

What was your last thought? Right, star fire in Seto’s eyes. What a glorious colour was blue. How tranquil and serene was a blue storm you realized as you saw nothing but a dome of red.

If this was the end, you wanted to see nothing but azure, cerulean galaxies at midnight; nothing but his eyes in love.

Memories of an old dream seeped into your thoughts. It wasn’t that it was old, only that everything beyond this world seemed so far away. A flailing newborn was cradled between you and Seto, indicolite peering into themselves.

You’ve never liked children, but the thought of his, animated your broken limbs.

_Please, Seto, give me a miracle._

Your knees cracked as they were pulled to fold under you, your body a sum of shattered bones cloaked by burnt skin. It would be too much to ask those limbs to stand.

Her lips contorted but you heard no sound. Your shins buried in dirt, you drew your card. You didn’t want to look at it.

There was a disorienting feeling of depersonalization, your sense of perception detached from your person; perhaps it was the only way to evade the pain, if not for a moment.

You dare to turn over your card; it read Dark Hole, a spell. You couldn’t recall forming the thought as you activated it mindlessly. A black hole spiralling out from a cerulean origin spun itself into the field, wrapping its dark arms around Yukari's Red Eyed beasts, feeding them into its depths, never to be seen.

Perhaps that last sentient had been a foolish one. No, it most certainly was, you would learn.

Yukari presents you the card she had drawn; Harpy's Feather Duster. She activates it to destroy the rest of the facedown magic and spell cards on your field. “Now let’s try this again,” she hisses, utilizing the effect of Red Eyes Wyvern in her Graveyard to resurrect Red Eyes Darkness Metal Dragon back to her side of the field yet again. “Thought you had seen the last of him did you? Dragon can never be driven to extinction, especially not by the likes of you.”

Your eyes were treacherous, you couldn’t see straight; your limbs conspiring against you. Your field was empty. In your hand, three spell cards, Magical Stone Excavation, Burial from a Different Dimension, and Megamorph.

 _Seto I need another miracle like that last,_ you prayed in earnest. You couldn’t remember when he had become your faith.

Fingertips blackened with ashes, you drew a card.

It's Polymerization. _Goddamn_ Polymerization.

Those rippling swirls of psychedelic orange and blue seemed to move, the distorted characters on its face mocking you. It was the last thing you would see before closing lids, or was it cerulean blue? 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!


	52. At The End Of The World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So last part of the duel. Thank you Est for the amazing choreography of plays, the outrageous chants and especially in this chapter, for the directions, amendments and dialogue prompts when I was writing shitty drafts. If it wasn’t for him, this chapter would never have seen the light of day and this fic propbably would have been shelved under all the demands fo real life. 
> 
> So thank you and also for reminding me to use that amazing last line!
> 
> Enjoy :)

 

The phone number flashing across his screen he recognized, despite having long deleted the name. The memorization was a result of the many number of messages she barraged him with following their separation. To say the relationship had not ended amicably would be a laughable euphemism. It wasn’t the number which fazed him; he saw it more often than his brother’s, it was what the text insinuated which made his blood run cold.

Pocketing his phone, graphite eyes drifted to pour over his brother’s hunched form, desperate to make a connection with his sister-in-law. He could already see the madness setting in under hardened layers of imperturbable composure he had learned to see through over the course of many years.

The last time Seto went without her he had contemplated taking his own life, and the younger was sure that had it not been for the possibility of becoming a father, his older brother would have acted on the compulsion. Mokuba was sure that if his sister-in-law did not survive, those compulsions would no longer be mere compulsions; the man who grew irascible at the end of the work day because he had been away from his wife for an unbearable length of time, would certainly not survive a lifetime without her.

It was this reasoning upon which he based his convictions; he could never hope to afford Seto the same contentment that his sister-in-law did. The possibility of the suspiciously generous offer extended by his former lover being an awaiting ambush occurred to him, though he could think of no alternative.

He slipped from the living room unnoticed, down the scarlet carpeted corridor, following its bend to the elevators.

He wasn’t surprised to find an empty parking garage on the lowest levels of the tower basement. Empty, with the exception of the handful of foreign cars with wheels he was certain had never met asphalt. It was empty, he was positive because through the maze of squared-edged concrete pillars, his own breathing echoed back to find him, marring the silence, and never meshing with anyone else’s.

Then the clap of flat soles against cement struck his ear drum. The repetitive clamour of footsteps blurred the number of men; a lone wolf against an enemy pack was easy prey.

“Miss Ashikaga sends her apologies.”

...

Your thoughts assaulted his consciousness like knives tearing at a raw canvas pulled taut. Seto couldn’t help he had sharpened that knife and put it in your hand.

He appraised the manila enveloped thrust into his hand, unravelling the string knotted in a fashion he had always deemed tedious around the prongs. He had no intention of sparing a glance at a single word of text, but two hundred pages of paper would deal an excellent paper cut.

“You lunatics must realize,” Seto asserted, tugging the papers from its sleeve, “that the moment you stepped in here...you were all dead men.”

The papers burst in a flurry into the air, amidst its chaos, a gun was turned, a hostage taken, and two guns fired four shots; three and one. Three met soft flesh; squelching as bullets gouged flesh and muscle. When the field cleared, the rustle of papers settling over every surface, the messenger who had dared to coerce Seto Kaiba into a negotiation was held by his neck at the mercy of the enraged chairman’s folded arm, hot steel now kissing his temple.

Seto’s eyes glossed over the scene to his brother, the younger clutching his upper arm; crimson darkening his Brunello Cucinelli suit. “It just grazed me,” Mokuba assured in a husk, “I’m fine.”

The older merely offered a nod of acknowledgment.

“They’re not dead,” he advised the assailants caught in a stalemate with his own men, gesturing with his barrel to the three men leaking scarlet into the weave of the marzipan hued carpet. “I wasn’t aiming to kill. My wife wouldn’t have liked that, though you must understand, my wife never finds out everything.”

He ordered for Isono to lock the front doors. Moments later a discernible click resounded, so quiet the drop of a pin could sound.

“Your first mistake,” Seto grunted, the stomach turning crack of bone and muscle twisting unnaturally together sounding through the space as the man cradled against the crook of his elbow collapsed lifeless, “was working for that clown Ashikaga.” Dusting his hands he marched forward, the guns aimed at him trembling.

“Your second,” he enunciated through gritted teeth, smouldering cerulean unwavering as he wrapped his palm around a hot barrel uncertain of its convictions to fire, “coming into my territory.”

Seto forced the barrel to meet his forehead; the clenching of guns, muscles tightening with heightened tension heard across the room holding its breath. “Your third — your most fatal, holding my family as leverage. Especially my wife.”

It would have been ideal for the assassin to pull his trigger in that moment, but blood-lusting indicolite rendered his limbs flaccid and paralyzed.

“What is it that your boss always says? And eye for an eye? Well you’re endangering both of mine, and I operate on the principle of returning a favour ten fold. So who’s should I pluck out in exchange for this one? There isn’t enough eyes in this room.”

Behind sapphire blackening from his resolve to not betray your morality burning to ashes, your vivid thoughts in his head grimly reminded him of your mortality. He heard himself in every thought.

From his peripheral he saw movement. I’m going to have to ask you to look the other way, he told you, grappling the weapon from the assailant’s hand, breaking the appendage in the process as he blindly discharged a bullet at another surreptitiously aiming his pistol for him. Seto turned the weapon on the men left standing; six remaining.

“That one likely won’t survive unless you get him immediate medical attention.”  
  
Even to his brother, the authority his elder sibling wielded in that moment was far from palatable. He commanded so much power in a state so volatile that if a man so much as breathed in a way which Seto deemed unsuitable, it would be enough to determine the man’s fate.

A muted, static buzzing escaped the lapel of one man’s jacket. Sharpened sapphire orbs shot to detect the disturbance. They discovered the man’s eyes shuffling tensely in their sockets — his attention was being occupied elsewhere. A radio transmission.

“You make a _sound_ defying what I tell you to do,” Seto warned, “and I guarantee you won’t be exhaling the air in your lungs.” His voice grated the lowest registers a man could produce; so low that it was the rustle of dry leaves against the payment at midnight; foreboding horrors unseen in the common world.

“No!” the man pleaded. “Please Mr. Kaiba, I have a family to get back to...a — a wife just like yours —”

“Don’t talk about my wife with your filthy mouth,” Seto raged, spinning away, cocking the pistol between the man’s eyes. “What were your orders?”

“To — to secure the parameters and receive your stamp on those documents. If we don’t report back, another team will storm in here.”

“And if you do?”

“That’s all we — that’s all they told us. We were briefed to — to wait until further instructions.”

“Disconnect them,” Seto ordered his men, “all except his.” He nodded with his head towards the man who had afforded him this information. “See to it that he relays back a satisfactory confirmation.”

“Yes sir.”

“Have reinforcements secure the building. And see to it that the blood is cleaned before my wife regains consciousness. No one is to tell her either, do I make myself clear? I’ll have enough to deal with.”

Seto turned his back to the scene of the failed ambush, the men being restrained by his own.

“Seto, I think you need to see this,” his younger brother called for his attention, leaning over you on the sofa, his palm still plastered against his bleeding arm. “She’s moving.”

“She’s moving but she’s not conscious,” the elder observed dourly, sitting beside you. He stroked the back of your cold hand, his mind absent. Your fierce loyalty to him was an instinct he comprehended, even in the absence of memory. In what you fathomed as your last moments, that your only thoughts sought to find him, was enough to inspire his own tears, though they never did materialize. The sight of yours, pouring over lifeless cheeks he couldn’t bear to watch. “I’m coming for you,” he swore, burning with the desperate urge to soothe you as he lifted the back of your palm to his lips.

“What are you waiting for?” Mokuba inquired, perplexed by his brother’s hesitance.

“I’m taking a page from her book and uploading a virus to the program. It’s not complete yet.”

“Her book?”

The older merely nodded. “It will suspend the reality so no new commands can be initiated, only what’s already in play.” Mokuba returned a nod in understanding. “You need to get that attended to. I will deal with you when I return. You and I will need to have a serious discussion about your behaviour today.”

Mokuba swallowed thickly at those words. He again nodded, watching the elder place the helmet over chestnut locks dishevelled from running his hands through it one too many times.

Sparing one last glance over at his younger sibling, the edge in his voice softened. “I mean it kid, get that arm sorted. You had me worried.”

“I will — but wait, how are you bringing her back?’

“By leaving a backdoor only I can access open. Anyone without access to this portal will have their minds trapped in the reality.” Seto began typing, initiating the manual entry sequence. “And while it’s arguable if the likes of what they have in between their ears even qualifies as a brain, it’s easier dealing with them in comatose.

“Hold down the fort while I’m gone,” were Seto’s last words to his younger sibling before his consciousness dissolved.

...

Yukari was overcome with rapture; she had surpassed you at long last. And not just at anything, this was not some inconsequential endeavour she had selected at random.

She was certain you would never regain consciousness, and if by some miracle you managed that, it would be an extraordinary feat in that condition to place your feet under you, and an impossible one still to choreograph a worthwhile play before meeting certain defeat.

In those moments she regarded final, waiting to be declared the victor, she indulged deaf ears with a confession she felt overdue. She had succeeded you, and this was her stage, her victory speech. “You wouldn’t believe me, but I used to be your fan, like every other wide eyed girl in the country. It feels so long ago but it really wasn’t. I truly believed what you stood for; innocence, youth, young love. You were an icon for everything I wanted, you gave the rest of us hope...until you decided to take everything I wanted for yourself.” Her voice snapped like dry wood under embers, estranged nostalgia transforming into what it has rotted away to over many months; venom. The virulence had long since laced her blood. The young woman was poison to herself.

“You called this another high school crush...it isn’t, I’ve devoted my whole life to this. I met him in my first year of high school. You would have hardly been in primary school. He was in second year. I sat beside him in calculus in my second year. He was civil to me in a way he wasn’t to anyone else. I stayed up past midnight making him Valentines chocolate six years in a row. I lived looking at no one but him. I moved away from my family and put myself through finishing school in Switzerland and grad school in America, learning language after language just so I could be good enough! And what did you do _princess_? You just waltzed into his arms, seducing him into a miserable marriage with two miscarriages. He deserved better!

“You want to know how I tied myself over all those years?” Her voice had reached a fever pitch. “It was the thought of his last name finally written beside mine. I practiced that signature until my hand cramped. And I hear you think the title of Mrs. Kaiba is an insult — that it takes away from your identity somehow. How dare you think your maiden name was above it? You didn’t deserve that honour! You’re just a weak little girl needing a knight in shining armour to protect her all the time.”

The euphoria welled and welled, she felt she was cleansing herself; there was that light at the end of her tunnel.

Nothing was happening. The game prompts registered the duel as ongoing; suspended on your turn. She couldn’t understand.

The sunset was melding into a blue twilight, indigo creeping across burning horizons, climbing the domed sky, pixels glitching everywhere the blue bled; the universe surrounding her truly transforming a dark cerulean

Eyes lifting to observe the ominous transformation, it occurred to her then, the system was caught in a stalemate; the code originally designed to remove a player that has been incapacitated conflicting with the altered code re-written to trap you in the system, playing itself on an endless loop. Though why the cerulean sky?

She demanded clarity from Hideji, ordering the program be re-written. His voice was distant, faint almost; the booming clap surrendered to a hush. She was only spared a vague explanation of how the system had grown unresponsive, its controls alluding him.

“It’s not unresponsive,” a voice with fond familiarity to Yukari corrected, “it just won’t respond to you.”

A tall doorway burnt itself into the landscape bleeding blue. It revealed ringed planets suspended in ultramarine galaxies, the stars embroidered to the sky burning infinitely closer to the swaying cherry trees below than in our known world. It was the antithesis of a field of blood lilies under rusty skies.

From beyond the portal emerged a wiry figure.

“Senpai.” Yukari’s address was a confused mix of a toddler caught finger painting on her mother’s favourite dress, and a triumphant one bursting at the seams to present her with that very same art they’ve created

“You’ve got some nerve going against me like that,” Seto growled, “or maybe you’re too incompetent to comprehend the consequences.”

The doorway behind him vaporized. Beneath Seto’s feet was a war zone, the landscape burning to ashes. His eyes sought you in the scorched stretches of lilies, finding tattered aquamarine splayed by the edge of the ravine, lying amongst the embers.

He faltered on his feet as they found their way to your side. Kneeling beside you he swept you into his arms, he brushed singed hair from your face; knuckles burning white at the sight. A predatory growled rolled in his chest.

“Senpai...What — what are you doing? She’s hideous!” Yukari implored to see. And indeed you were; streaks of cinder marking your face over torn skin, thin lines of scarlet etched over ashen cheeks. Your limbs were scorched and blistered, reddened and unsightly.

“Hideous you say?” he asked, derision inflecting his tone as he rose to his feet, supporting your weight. “While that’s a very apt self-descriptor, I don’t think there’s anything more nauseating in this place than you. Take a good look at yourself in the mirror Yukari, you’re missing more than just a few screws.

“You’re in love with me? Well get in line, I get that speech every day. Now, I could stand here and explain to you why I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last woman on earth, but there’s nothing I hate more than repeating myself to halfwits without the capacity to understand. I would pay more attention to you if you were a bug squashed on the underside of my shoe, and quite frankly, I have better uses for my breath than wasting words on you.

“This unhinged circus has gone on for far too long, and I’m bringing it to end.”

Loosening your fingers gripping your last cards as if a vise, Seto slipped them out of your hands, holding you closer as he unclasped the duel disk from your limp arm.

“But she has nothing left to play!” Yukari challenged.

“Wrong. My wife was using my deck, and there’s never nothing left to play. She had all the cards needed to win this by the third turn. Watch and learn.” With a dramatic flip of his wrist he revealed to her a spell card poised between his fingers. “I activate the spell card Magical Stone Excavatipn. It allows me to exchange two cards in my hand with one in my Graveyard.” 

“But I won! I’m the better duelist! Why are you still defending her?” she demanded, distraught. It made no sense, why was it still you?

“Because you’re a lame chess player and a lamer duellist. If you had any respect for the game the way you claim, you wouldn’t have stooped to such under handed tactics. You say she needs a knight in shining armour to protect her, wrong again. I’m no knight, all I gave her was the armour, and she did a fine job defending herself against a low level cheat.”

“Senpai,” she shrieked, “I did this for us...why can’t you see!” She threw her head up to Hideji, her lungs were beginning to web with a thickness. “Why is the system allowing him to play for her?”

“Because,” Seto gloated, “this is a universe of my own design. I’m the master of this reality and I command every detail.”

Seto wouldn’t spare time for Hideji to respond, it would be a waste of his time; it would never come. “Now if we’re done with this sob fest, I activate the spell card Burial from a Different Dimension. This allows me to transfer my three Blue Eyes White Dragons that have been removed from play back into my Graveyard.

“Then I activate Dragon’s Mirror to fuse my three dragons!” he roared.

From the depths of the abyss, perhaps from the very centre of the earth, frazil-silver dust spun together, gathering to illuminate the the unending darkness, the blinding light birthing skeletal dragons, fossilized by the ravage of time. The stiff limbs of the beasts cracked as they straightened, the joints of the wings snapping as they fell into sockets; petrified remains reanimating. The monsters shrieked, soaring above the decaying cliffs, their flights weaving with each other’s, disappearing into the gleaming mirror of monumental proportions which had materialized above the duelist who had woken them.

The entire ravine appeared to be holding its breath.

“Blue Eyes White Dragon!” Seto bellowed. “Return to me from beyond the grave! Remember your true form as the unstoppable engine of destruction, the pinnacle of all existence! Drown her enemies beneath the waves of your infinite power! Show yourself, the immortal protector of her universe! Neo Blue Eyes Ultimate Dragon!"

At those words, the glass of the mirror seemed to ripple, as if a fragile surface of a clear lake, before cobweb like fissures embellished the glass, cracking. A menacing, three headed white dragon clawed away at the fragments as it emerged through the gold frame, its roar imprinting itself into the landscape, unleashing an earthquake on the volatile cliffside. The mirror shattered, exploding into a flurry of glass in the wake of the beast.

It’s wings outstretched, the beast landed directly behind Seto as if it were his very shadow; an extension of himself. Obscuring the light of what remained of the setting sun, its shadow encompassed the plane, drowning the field in a chilling somberness.

Neo Blue Eyes Ultimate Dragon. It is of such a monstrous scale that it just dwarfs Yukari's Red Eyes Darkness Metal Dragon.

“That’s very impressive senpai,” she admitted, “but in my hand is Raigeki and with it, on my next turn I can destroy that beast.” The heaviness nesting in her lungs was beginning to blur the ends of her words to slurs, a scarf of asphyxiation knotting her throat.

“I don’t recall saying I was finished,” Seto sneered. “You should pay better attention. I told you I was bringing this farce to and end, and I intend to. Neo Blue Eyes can attack four times per turn.”

“I can’t be breath,” Yukari choked interrupting, heaving, her form contorted forward.

“So you’ve finally noticed. You see, before entering this reality, I took the liberty of infecting the system with a crippling virus. All commands and programs except already initiated sequences of play such as this duel, will cease, suspending in time everything it touches, along with all those in it. Heard from your boy toy Hideji in a while? He can no longer help you. In fact, the virus must be eating away at him as we speak.”

“What does that even mean?”

“That filth Wakamura had oh so conveniently placed himself in a prime location for the virus, I doubt he can escape. Doesn’t it seem as if it’s more and more laborious to breathe? That’s not your imagination. And once I'm through with you, breathing will be the least of your problems.” His expression did not transform once, a sober scowl etched into his face. He revelled in the thrill of avenging you, but it was a certain unhinged madness which had progressed beyond the realm of sanity; your last conscious thoughts haunted him, your present condition incensing.

He would set fire to the world which had burnt you, and shield you from the flames.

“That’s madness!” she objected. “You’ll kill us all!”

“I don’t plan on going down with the ship. I will be leaving the same way I came in, through the back door I programmed into the system before infecting it with the virus.”

You stirred to the familiar warmth seeping in. “Seto,” you managed to murmur, suffocating against his shirt. It was the only word you could remember to say. Severe eyes flickering down to you, he leaned forward, grazing his lips fleetingly over your bleeding lips, slightly parted. It stung, the brush of his silken lips over yours, but you savoured the gentle warmth you didn’t think you would ever feel again as his breath caught in your throat. “It hurts,” you remembered the words to say, your voice sandpaper scraping pumice.

“Sleep,” he husked. “It’s almost over.”

Except sleep wouldn’t come on command, and your consciousness drifted in an out of an excruciating reality, but the drone of his baritone was soothing.

“You’re lucky she’s alive,” Seto threatened, “because otherwise, you would have begged to switch places. Being dead would have been desirable to you, though the moment you touched my person, you marked your fate. You see, I return everything I’ve been dealt a hundred fold.

“Since you seemed to be so confident that you were a Duelist worthy of me, I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear that I've also taken the liberty to amplify the intensity of the pain from Duelling. Let’s see if you can take what you dish.”

“Amplify the - You’re mad!” she accused. “Senpai don’t do this!”

“What I am you’ve forced my hand to become!” Seto thundered. “How dare you touch her! Let me spell this out for you, so your pitiful brain can catch up. There is an astronomical phenomenon that normally only occurs by the gravitational collapse of supermassive planets. The hyper nova, capable of destroying stars dozens of light years away. It has a temperature of fifty billion degrees Celsius, rivalling the dawn of creation! Do you still believe yourself to be a worthy Duelist?! My wife suffered hundred times the norm at your hands... so I'll deal you an attack a hundred times stronger than the suffering she felt! And thanks to the effects of the virus, you'll be trapped in endless agony, imprisoned by the precious ravine of your own design for all eternity! Wife! Witness this blood spilt in sacrifice!”

Your eyes lifted at his address to see pillars of blinding white light anchoring into the far field. The menacing Red Eyes which had seemed so intimidating once exploded on impact, the intensity of the mighty dragon gouging a trench into the ravine. Your fingers curled against his shirt, the light burning your sore eyes.

Noticing, he shielded you as he ordered the second assault, “Neo Blue Eyes Ultimate Dragon! Purge the stain on this world once and for all with your Hypernova Blast!”

Yukari could feel no air in her lungs, her heaving drew shrapnels in where oxygen should have filled. How was it that you continued to breath when Seto was the only one impervious to the virus?

The sky was now one divine, dark cerulean.

In her final moments her eyes darted across the field to find you, Seto’s lips planted on yours, his breath yours, as was his soul she realized.

Defiantly escaping his guard, you looked over your shoulder to witness the second beam as it impaled Yukari. A piping yell eerily reminiscent to yours pierced the stratosphere. You thought you felt her pain, but you could never hope to fathom what your husband was inflicting.

He commanded a third attack on the same breath, before the light of the previous had faded. As her life points counted down to zero, your husband lusted for worse. His blood boiled, and rage lit wildfires in those sapphire eyes. This was merciful retribution. It would never be enough.

Seto’s voice was a monstrous thunder, consuming all it met in waves, ordering the fourth attack. You implored him against it, but your pleas died at the gates of deaf ears.

“This is not real pain!” he roared.

You looked away.

As the field settled, an ashen landscape of scarlet blossoms burnt black over a crumbling ravine remained, an eerie quiet sweeping through the plane. Blood red lilies which had survived war harvested ivory moonlight as it swayed to the persuasion of the wind under galaxy-blue skies. It seemed to be uncaring of who had won and who had succumbed to the hellhounds of war.

Cradling you in his arms, Seto stepped through the portal opening behind him. The star heavy galaxies dipping like heavy tents to a wood of cherry blossoms bursting with blooms, disappeared piece by piece to a white room.

“We’re home,” Seto husked, reaching for your helmet, having removed his own. Your eyes opened just a crack, in his eyes you found the the galaxies which had faded and died.

He had once said that he would be there with you until all those stars and galaxies you loved so much died, and much long after. And indeed there he was.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new arc of starts is starting after this so tell me what you think/ though of everything so far :)


	53. Énouement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff and drama. If this isn’t what you all signed up for, I don’t know what to tell you.
> 
> Also Alma, for saying reader should step on Seto in those boots, and for Mary saying he would like it. I love you both. Alright, time for bed.

You woke up to a steady heartbeat.

Gold was bleeding into the dim room through the open doorway, muffled noise from a television disturbing the room from a distance; behind him, the Seoul skyline wrapped around the far left wall of glass.

He was the scent of coming home, a sense you had been without in that reality. What a blessing it was to have a person to come home to. What a privilege to have a place return to, a window glowing amber; to know some is expecting you...somewhere in the world.

How many years had you come home to a dark room, a cold bed? Back then, you didn’t crave affection, at least, you didn’t think; you couldn’t yearn for what you didn’t know existed.

Énouement, was what you thought they called it, the bittersweet feeling of arriving in the future and not being able to tell your past self how things would turn out. Given the chance, you would tell her that it would be okay; to stop being her worst enemy, dissecting herself with her own scrutiny, that she wasn’t unlovable, that what she felt was a deep melancholy and that yes, it would end someday, and even be so distant that in some moments - in moments such as this - that it will almost feel as if it was someone else’s old story.

Seto’s arm was draped over your shoulder, curving behind you to hold your head against him, his fingers lost in your hair.

Seto was brilliant, ruthless, unforgiving, and calculated situations to the nineteenth decimal in his favour. You knew this. In fact it had been the only thing you were certain of entering this marriage. You hadn’t always known he would calculate in yours.

You had fallen in love with endless, stormy indicolite, alabaster porcelain and glossy chestnut which reminded you of fresh turned earth in the spring. Though lately, you had started loving how the corner of his mouth crinkled when he smiled, the soft lines which etched ever so elusively between his eyes and around his lips on days which were especially trying.

He was a man far beyond your control, and the thought of that should have been frightening. And it was, though only because a man in command of so much power transcended into the realm of being a god, and in any man, that was disturbing.

Disturbing? Do you ever get tired of being so deceitfully righteous, you heard your subconscious taunt. At the end of the night, in spite of who he chooses to be, you would still come home to him.

His voice carried apprehension as it called you. Almost as if he was afraid you wouldn’t recognize it.

As your eyes lifted to meet open blue, the tension seemed to leave him, his form melding into yours, relaxing. You acknowledged his address with a soft hum, inviting him to continue.

“Something is bothering you,” Seto observed. “What is it?”

You shook your head, disputing his claim, and as if to avoid further interrogation, you burrowed your face into his chest, finding refuge in his dark grey shirt.  


“Did you have a nightmare?”

“No.” Your words muffled against his shirt.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“It’s over,” he assured, tightening his embrace. You’ve heard those words before, but this time you believed him. You had learnt to entrust things to him over the past months.

You slipped your arms behind his waist, holding him closer.

“You’ve suffered unnecessarily,” Seto began in a low adjective, “only because you were my wife. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” you told him.

“I wasn’t expecting you to accept it...”

“No Seto, I’m not accepting it because you’ve done nothing to warrant it.”

He pulled apart to hold you at a distance in his embrace, severe eyes flickering against yours. “You’re too good for me,” he husked.

“I’m only being half of what you are to me.”

A faint smile turned up the edge of his lip, his left palm resting over the side of your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. Returning his smile, you wrapped your hand over his much larger one, lifting it to your curved lips; eyes never leaving his. Your lips met warm metal, his wedding band wrapped around his fourth finger.

“You’re wearing your wedding ring,” you remarked, a wide smile helplessly swelling your cheeks. You didn’t recall the last he had worn it.

“Does it make you that happy?” The familiar question carrying his obvious amusement, masked with thin indifference only intensified your elation, your smile spreading.

You nodded. “It means you know who you belong to,” you dared to say, before promptly hiding against his chest.

You had expected an assault on your lips with his own, or perhaps even elsewhere, instead he wrapped both arms around your back. “I thought you said people didn’t belong to people?” he challenged, kissing your temple.

“People can’t belong to people, but I like to think soulmates belong to each other.”

“You’re cloying,” Seto feigned dispassion, though his lips pressed against your hairline, eliciting a giggle.

“We should get married soon — ”

“We’re already married,” he interrupted.

“No you know what I mean,” you pouted, pulling away to meet his eyes. “Have a wedding so we can have babies, a lot of them,” you declared excitedly.

His thoughts drifted to your earlier ones, a tinge cutting at his heartstrings. It wasn’t a feeling the stoic CEO experienced often, if ever outside of matters concerning you.

Seto forced a guttural chuckle. “When you’re older,” he said, “you can give me all the babies you want.”

“Well can we practice for when I’m older now?” you teased, tone veiled with innocence; swinging your leg over his torso and sitting up to straddle him before he could react. Your fingers slid under his shirt, pushing up the hem of the fabric to reveal his abs as he had often done to you.

“I was expecting you to be more disoriented,” Seto rasped, a dangerous smirk darkening his features. His fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place.

“Your wife is on top of you, trying to take off your shirt, and that’s all you have to say? You were expecting me to feel more disoriented? Well I was expecting more of a reaction.”

“If you wanted a reaction,” Seto taunted, pulling you flush against him under the comforter to whisper in your ear, “you should have gone for my pants.”

You could feel him harden between your thighs as he said those words; a content sigh escaping your lips into his ear as he pressed against you over your panties. Burying your face in the crook of his neck as he often did when he made love to you, you began grinding your wetness against his protruding bulge.

His arms left your hips, stealing under your nightdress, riding up the white cotton. One hand ghosted back down over your spine, sliding away your soaked panties. You helped him slip it past your ankles.

A long moan left you as his concealed erection pressed deeper against your lips, the bothersome piece of lace no longer obstructing the pleasure.

“It’s so much more of a turn,” Seto grunted, guiding your hips, “the thought of fucking you when you’re dressed like this.”

“Then fuck me already,” you mewled, sucking on his neck.

He didn’t need anymore persuasion as he pushed you away for a moment, pulling his shirt over his head. Laying supine, he pulled you back into him. “Keep this on,” he ordered, tugging at a fallen strap of your nightie.

You could only moan in response, hips falling into a familiar rhythm. This as it was, was unbelievable euphoria.

“I thought,” Seto began to grunt when a voice at the door interrupted him.

“I heard voices! Is she — ” the younger faltered at the sight; Seto’s shirt discarded beside your underwear over the edge of the bed, the comforter obscuring your writhing forms under it, giving rise to misunderstandings, “— awake...”

“Ever thought to knock?” the elder snapped, narrowing his eyes as his sibling covered his with both palms.

“Maybe you should close the door next time before going at it,” Mokuba contested, fleeing down the corridor for the stairs. “Oh my god Seto,” his appalled voice could be heard from the distance, “you’re unbelievable - she just woke up and you’re already. My eyes!”

“I forgot he was still here,” Seto spoke rather apologetically, sapphire eyes darting back to click against yours.

“It’s fine,” you dismissed, sitting up. “That’s one way to kill the mood.”

“Later maybe,” Seto agreed, sitting up with you on his lap. “You need to eat something.”

“Carry me,” you demanded, nuzzling your face against the bare skin of his neck, legs already wrapped around his waist.

“Put on something more presentable,” he suggested.

...

As Seto turned the corner from the staircase, walking towards the living room, carrying you against his waist, Mokuba piped up again from the sofa. “Are you two decent now? Can I look?”

“We weren’t doing anything,” Seto flatly denied, “you overreacted as always.”

“Yes,” Mokuba mocked, muting the television, “you two were playing charades on top of each other, and the noises I heard must have been the mattress.”

“Don’t push it kid,” Seto warned, walking past his brother to set you down on the adjacent sofa.

“You’re carrying her now too? Can she not walk.” There was a humorous lilt to his tone.

“Mokuba,” Seto growled.

“I was joking,” the younger countered, increasing the volume of the program he had been watching. “Learn to relax, geez.” His attention turned to you as Seto disappeared into the kitchen, muttering a string of curses. “Hey! Your drama is playing next. I didn’t know you were playing a high school student. Does Seto know?”

 

“Of course I‘m aware,” Seto’s voice came thundering over the commercial playing on screen.

“Wrapped around her — ” the younger began to say without missing a beat.

“This may be her apartment,” Seto barked from the kitchen interrupting, “but I will have you thrown out.”

“Oh this is going to be so awkward, can we please watch something else?” you pleaded.

“Why?”

“I don’t watch things I’m in on principle,” you explained, “humans aren’t made to see themselves in motion apart of themselves.”

Those charcoal orbs narrowed in calculation. “You don’t want Seto to see you with another guy,” he deduced; the cunning bastard. Then it got worse. “Is there a kissing scene? But wait! I haven’t told you what episode it was yet...unless you kiss the lead in every episode!” He punctuated his sentence with a scandalized gasp.

“Of course not,” you defended, snatching the remote. “I know the airing schedule!”

“Yeah right,” he scoffed. “Don’t worry though, Seto has seen all of your dramas. So he’s seen every guy who has ever sucked your face.”

“What?”

“I’ve done no such thing,” your husband snapped, returning with a tray in hand. Clearing his throat he composed himself as he sat beside you. “Where would I have that kind of time Mokuba? If you’re going to make up stories, at least make them believable. Don’t listen to my brother’s fiction.” Opening the ceramic casserole dish, vapour climbed out of from under the lid. “Don’t corrupt her mind Mokuba,” Seto sternly advised, stirring the red broth with a spoon.

“Awfully defensive,” the younger purred.

Seto merely clicked his tongue.

You didn’t pay any mind to how Mokuba abruptly fell silent, his undivided attention invested in the interaction between you and his brother.

“Korean pork stew,” Seto explained, “since you ask for it so much.”

“Feed me,” you asked of him, catching his wrist as he handed you the spoon.

“You got to be kidding me,” Mokuba blurted, unable to help himself. This earned a glare over his brother’s shoulder, before Seto leaned forward, complying. “Now I’ve seen it all.”

“How does it taste?” Seto inquired, ignoring his sibling. You should have noticed how tensely he held his shoulders for such an inconsequential question.

“It tastes really good,” you replied honestly; your husband’s features relaxing.

“It’s bland!” Mokuba couldn’t help himself once again. “What have you been feeding her that the the poor girl thinks that tastes good Seto?”

“She has severe acid reflux,” Seto groused. “And maybe if you stopped eating so much junk rotting with preservatives, home cooked food wouldn’t taste so repulsive to you.”

“Home cooked?” you inquired.

“Seto spent most of the evening making that for you. Still not sure what it’s supposed to be — ”

“You made this?” you gasped, hardly allowing your husband the time to form a response before tackling him into an embrace. “Oh you’re the best!” you squealed, lifting yourself to crush your lips against his.

“I get that you’re newlyweds but could you stop eating my brother’s face right in front of me?” Mokuba deadpanned.

“You’re going to burn yourself,” Seto chided, planting you back in your seat.

“I wasn’t eating his face,” you sulked, sinking down against the cushions to curl against Seto’s side.

“So were!”

“Was not.”

“Stop being juvenile the both of you!” Seto roared, deciding he’s had enough antics for the night.

 

“Seto I really couldn’t tell this was home made,” you whispered to him, hoping to evade the ears of the younger, invested in your drama; his arms hugging his legs folded on the edge of the chair. “When I was stuck in there, you have no idea how much I wanted to taste your cooking on more time.

Your husband merely hummed, also occupied by the drama as he held another spoonful of soup before your lips. He wasn’t in a sharing mood to disclose what he had heard of your thoughts.

“Are upset at me?” you probed at his lack of response.

“No,” he returned, hoping the emotions those memories evoked wouldn’t be conveyed on his tone. The plot of the drama playing on the television was only stirring his sour disposition.

“Seto, what is it?” you asked disconcerted. “You look really annoyed.”

“Could you two keep it down!” Mokuba complained. “He’s about to confront her.”

“Seto doesn’t need to see this,” you said, deciding it would only aggravate whatever was bothering him further, “please change the channel.”

“You’re not changing the channel Mokuba.”

“That’s two against one.”

“I’m going to bed,” you announced as the second male lead stalked up the staircase to the rooftop in search of your character. You knew what would follow. You stood without warning.

“Sit down,” Seto ordered, pulling on your wrist.

“No,” you playfully defied, pulling on his arm, “let’s go upstairs and finish what we started.”

“Sit down and finish your dinner,” Seto refused distracted.

“Oh god,” you breathed, sinking back into him.

You had missed the conversation leading up to the confrontation, but your eyes made contact with the screen as the lips of the supporting actor met yours. You swallowed your lips in response, eyes squeezing shut behind your cupped palms.

“Told you it was a bad idea,” you squeaked to no one in particular.

“It’s episode two and you really did kiss someone!” Mokuba screeched. “He’s not even the main lead!”

“Just how many men do you kiss in this script?” Seto growled from beside you, his voice pulled taut.

“Three,” you whimpered, cowering.

“What?” The bowl of soup met the coffee table with pointed impact.

“Hey it’s better than Kingdom of The Sun,” you attempted to defend, “she would have had romantic interactions with like seven men over the course of the three movies, and I’m not talking kissing.”

Your claim was punctuated by the sharp crack of your character’s palm meeting the stunned boy’s cheek as he pulled away from the kiss.

“Oooh,” Mokuba narrated, “was that a real slap?”

“It was. We had three go arounds at that.”

Your husband seemed somewhat placated by the knowledge, though he was far too obsessive to simply abandon his ire. “This is why I don’t like you being an actress.”

The program cut away to commercial.

“And I don’t like the fact that you’ve had sexual relations with nineteen women,” your tongue slipped before you could reconsider, “but I don’t hold it against you!”

“You remember that?” Seto’s brows gathered, appraising you.

“I’m out, call me when this is over.” Mokuba threw up his arms, excusing himself to the kitchen.

“Here and there,” you lied. Seto discernibly tensed at the confession, expecting the worst. “But you’re mine now,” you told him, moving to straddle his lap, “and I like to think what you had with them didn’t mean anything. It’s the same with what you see on screen Seto. It’s all make belief. I’m yours but this is something I love doing. Don’t keep me away from it.”

“That was in the past, long before I met you. This will be ongoing.”

“And I will still come home to you,” you reminded him, “the way you come home to me and not the women you slept with. I’ll never be anymore intimate with these actors than a really stiff kiss in front of forty production staff members.”

“That’s very mature of you,” he admitted, clearing his throat. “Perhaps I overreacted.”

“Thank you.” You kissed his cheek.

“You liked my cooking?”

“Loved it,” you cooed, hugging him. “Maybe you really should be a stay at home daddy.”

His brows knitted as Seto fought to remember when you had said that before, retorting with a comment cautioning you to be careful where you tread.

“Could you guys wrap it up?” you heard Mokuba groan from the kitchen. “I’d like to be back before the commercial ends.” He stalked back into the living room with a bag of popcorn as you invited him. “Oh look,” he commented with unrestrained sarcasm, “you’re also on the commercials. It’s like the drama never ends.”

...

“It’s getting late,” Seto told his brother as he watched Mokuba doze off, the old war flick failing to retain his attention. “You should get some rest.”

“Are you heading up with her now then?”

“Yeah,” Seto replied, his fingers gently stroking your hair, your body curled over his lap, long asleep.

“The blood stains came out nicely,” the younger noted, looking over at the immaculately cleaned carpet. “Isono says salt does the trick. Who knew.”

Seto grunted. “How’s your arm?”

“It should be fine.”

“Have the bandages changed tomorrow before she wakes up. And make sure she doesn’t see it.”

“What are you going to tell sis happened?”

“Nothing unless she thinks to ask,” Seto said, lifting your sleeping form against him as he stood. “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.”

...

You stirred awake to the mattress shifting beside you under cold sheets.

“Seto,” you murmured, hands blindly searching for his shirt to nestle against.

“I’m here,” he husked, his whole form surrounding you.

“Turn off the table lamps if it bothers you,” you told him, “it doesn’t scare me anymore.”

“The dark?” he questioned incredulous.

“Yeah, you’re here,” you mumbled, the influence of sleep glossing over words. He reached to turn off the night lamps, before returning to your side.“Aishiteru yo,” you whispered against the bare skin of his neck, sleep threatening to claim you.

After a long silence you heard his voice pour over you in the darkness, like velvet in pitch black only lifted by city lights stealing through closed blinds. “Ore mo,” Seto returned, lips pressed firmly against the pulse of your temple.

...

“After last night,” Seto panted, rolling off you under the sheets to hold you from behind, palm fondling your flushed breasts, “I didn’t think you had it in you.”

The smell of magnolia in the morning was always a welcome scent. You savoured the sweet floral notes mixing with the musk of your husband’s sweat from the early morning affair.

“I’m yours if you want me again,” you replied breathily, feeling his lips tracing the back of your neck.

“I want you but I have a meeting early,” Seto husked, reaching past you for his wristwatch he had abandoned on your nightstand in a heady fit the night before. “I’m already late.”

“Five more minutes won’t hurt,” you whined, turning to hold him, your legs tangling with his.

“Not all of us are on bed rest,” Seto pecked your lips, before separating from you. Tying the decorative blanket draped over the foot of the bed around his bare lower half, he leaned over to crush his lips against yours one last time, the sheets falling away from you to your waist as you rose to meet him; exposing you to him. “Don’t tempt me,” he growled against your ear; stalking off towards the bathroom.

“When the doctor said I had to be on bed rest I don’t quite think this is what he meant,” you contested. “I’m fine to go back to work you know, all my CT scans came back normal remember?”

“One more week after all the time you’ve already taken off won’t hurt you,” he maintained.

  
Seto left within the hour with another kiss against your forehead. “Wear that black thing that I like,” he had told you, sweeping you into his arms as he whispered from the edge of the bed everything he planned to do with you when he returned that evening. He was insatiable as of late.

You had every intention to obey that last command, though not much of what had preceded it. It would have been prudent of him to confiscate your laptop if had genuinely wanted to keep you from your work.

Eight twenty eight, your eyes registered the compact scrawl on the corner of your screen. Your husband had been gone two hours. It was almost comical how you counted the hours until he came home, as if some love sick puppy.

You answered your phone to your secretary losing her mind. Ah, you mused, how you had not missed that anxiety spiking pitch first thing in the morning.

“My love, your voice wakes me up better than the heart attack inducing number of espresso shots my husband takes in his morning coffee,” you told her as greeting. “What have I always told you? Breathe and tell me _slowly_ ,” you over enunciated that last word.

“An - an emergency board meeting has been called between Kodama and KC,” she hyperventilated, “there’s a scandal taking over portal sites that you’ve been pregnant twice with Mr. Kaiba’s baby, only for them both to end in miscarriages. The boards are discussing your dismissal on the count of poor health and lack of transparency on your condition. The KC directors are threatening to all resign if you refuse to step down.”

The consequential effect on stock prices would be devastating.

“What condition?”

“Amnesia and inability to carry a pregnancy to term.”

Seto wouldn’t call to tell you. In fact, he had instructed no one call to tell you, you would discover. Your secretary’s phone call had been made out of long standing loyalty.

“With what proof?” you demanded of her. “Purge my medical records if my husband hasn’t already. Hold that meeting until I get there.”

...

You wore a sky blue blazer dress cinched at the waist with a matching belt, paired with thigh high suede blue boots. You thought it fitted the occasion. Heads were about to roll and you thought it appropriate to laugh in the face of the damned.

The mansion gates would not open for you as your silver Maserati came to a standstill in the driveway. Rolling down the tinted window, you lowered your shades at the familiar guard.

“Mrs. Kaiba I — ”

“That bullet hole I offered to put in your skull in the spring,” you interrupted, scratching the barrel of your pistol against your temple nonchalantly in warning, “is today the day you finally get it?”

That was all the persuading the poor man needed.

“Also,” you added as a parting remark. “I would appreciate it if you started calling me by my formal name. I don’t recall having it changed because I married Seto.”

The second gate keeper was Isono at the doors to the board room.

“Mrs. Kaiba, I’ve been given orders to — ”

“Step aside,” you growled. Isono stood his ground. “Step aside,” you repeated.

“Mr. Kaiba just entered. He’ll take care of the situation,” Isono asserted.

“If I screamed Isono, that’s all the attention I need to get. Decide where you want me to say my piece.”

“I’ve been ordered to retrain you if necessary,” he threatened, stepping forward, prepared to apprehend you.

“Seto said that?” you asked appalled under the guise of disbelief. “Even though I’m pregnant?”

The older man’s eye twitched, unable to unravel your bluff. “I wasn’t advised you were expecting.”

“Is a third miscarriage something you’re willing to risk?” you challenged, narrowing your eyes. “Open the door,” you ordered the other guard, and when no opposition from Isono met the command, the man in black complied.

You walked into a full house of board members.

  
“Morning,” you greeted exaggeratedly stalking in, receiving the stunned gazes of three dozen suits. “How lovely it is to see you all in one room — on time for once I see Matsuda.” At the head of the table, beside an empty seat meant for you, Seto’s were the eyes of Hades as they turned to meet you. “How was your morning my love,” you purred, leaning over his chair with the utmost grace to kiss his cheek as you passed him to stand behind your own seat; your fingertips brushing him from shoulder to shoulder as you did.

“What the hell are you doing here?” your husband hissed, meeting your eyes at the corner of his.

Your hand continued to rest against his shoulder as you spoke. “Taking my seat back, I’m sick of sitting pretty.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Her outfit/ hair: https://pin.it/uc5rsh3j6h64yc
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> Let me know your thoughts as always :)


	54. The Whisper Of Wisteria In The Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize a lot a lot of loose strings haven’t been discussed, but I figured you all needed to breathe for a minute before I went into the specifics, so enjoy this. 
> 
> I suggest listening to “How Great Is Your Love” and “Telepathy” by SNSD because I thought it really fit this chapter or at least the latter part.

As you always said, emergency board meetings never meant anything good for anyone. Despite who’s head was on the chopping board, ultimately, it would be yours. And this time it was.

It was striking to everyone present how you tamed the notoriously explosive temper of Seto Kaiba with a few words flippantly strung together.

“I’ll get to the point,” you announced. “None of us want to be in a room together with each other so let’s not prolong the torture on ourselves. Dealing with you — ” you fixed an unambiguous glare on the Kaiba Corp. board of directors as you set down your Hermes clutch, “ — is like dealing with my in-laws I was spared the trauma of dealing with. You people are toxic.”

Your husband cautioned you with a dangerous growl of your name, demanding you take a seat. He was convinced your present self wasn’t equipped to command this crowd in a circumstance as precarious as this.

“Please hold any burning questions until the end. I will also be accepting _resignations_ at the end. If you were one of those who championed the motion of my dismissal and you are a member of my board, consider your employment terminated, effective immediately because I have no intention of stepping down.

“Now, yes the pregnancy has been terminated. Understand, it has been terminated,” you reiterated, earning the stunned gaze of Seto at how dispassionately you addressed the issue which had ground you down to paroxysms of violent sobbing for many nights. “Do not insult me. I did not miscarry.” Your fingers dug into Seto’s shoulder over his suit jacket under reactions of varying degrees of appalled. “After much deliberation, Mr. Kaiba and I decided to terminate the pregnancy on the basis that a child born out of wedlock in society’s eye would tarnish the reputation of both our families. I could not have our firstborn and the heir to both of our corporations viewed as a fatherless child. If you would allow me, I would be more than pleased to pass around my medical records to anyone dying of suspicion.

“Given the premise of the marriage, I understand there has been speculation regarding our personal relationship. Where the relationship behind bedroom doors between Mr. Kaiba and I are concerned, the only reason I have not conceived since is simply due to the marvels of modern medicine.”

“I‘m afraid I do not follow,” an older man in a grey suit which was threatening to claim him as a part of the drab upholstery of his chair, interrupted in a slow drawl.

“Of course you wouldn’t. Contraception,” you clarified, “I haven’t conceived following, because of birth control.”

“I think it’s time you sit down,” Seto seethed through gritted teeth, his fingers constricting your hand on his shoulder.

“So what you’re saying is,” another older gent you had only been acquainted with on the one occasion begged for confirmation, “you and Mr. Kaiba have developed a healthy physical relationship which could — given that the necessity arises — lead to the producing of an heir?”

“We are straying from topic,” your husband snapped. “Don’t you pompous wind bags listen? I don’t see how this relates to the matter at hand.”

“We believe,” a third greying gentleman pitched, “that if Mrs. Kaiba retired from her corporate duties, for reasons including this as well as others, she would be in better health to produce an heir before you turn thirty, sir.”

“That’s within two years,” Seto growled. “That’s unreasonable. My wife is still very young.”

“Young,” you agreed with your husband, “though certainly not out of the question. I could not disagree more with the notion that leaving my position would be beneficial to my health and by extension having children somehow. I’m more than capable of managing my health sufficiently without retiring. I also have a capable husband.” Bringing his hand clasping yours to your lips, his cold wedding band pressing against your Cupid’s bow, you offered him a small smile. _Please for the love of god, I get that you’re pissed at me Seto but learn to act_ , you entreated him with your eyes, hoping it would thaw his intense facade. It couldn’t be convinced. “And since he’s so capable, I will be stepping down from my position — ”

“What?” Seto’s eyes already boring yours like drills of diamond smouldered.

“—From my position spearheading the virtual reality project beside him. Following the accident I haven’t had an active role in the project so I see no reason for it to affect release dates. To be clear, I will not be resigning from my position as the president and CEO of either Kodama or SKO.”

A low drone of hush tones drowned the board room.

“The more pressing issue at hand remains,” the voice of the gentleman who had first spoken rose above the murmurs, “the rumours surrounding your mental well-being. It concerns us how fit you are mentally to oversee your conglomerate.”

“My supposed amnesia.” You received a nod of acknowledgement. “Are they rumours or do you have basis for these rumours?”

“There have been claims made,” the same member began.

“Claimed conceived by who exactly?” you challenged. Seto reserved himself to a role of observation, prepared to intervene should the need arise; for the moment electing for silence.

You had received confirmation that the original reports detailing your condition following the accident had not been breached. The upheaval only had grounds in mass hysteria stirred by Yukari or Ashikaga leaving trails of breadcrumbs - or possibly the entire loaf - as a precautionary measure. A copy secured from your husband’s office could easily be disproved as counterfeit on the count of their ultimate motives towards the corporation, while accusing the member making the allegations with those documents of colluding with criminals.

“I’m sure you all have been briefed by now on the status of my husband’s former EA and former director Ashikaga as wanted criminals. Feel free to expose yourselves here as their co-conspirators by presenting any documents you’ve procured from them.” Slamming your palms against the long oval table polished to a soft gloss, you leaned forward. “I would like to take this opportunity to clean house for a second time around. Since clearly, we didn’t weed out the right heads with the original Wakamura circus.”

The boardroom held its breath, suspicious glances exchanged under hooded lids. You had turned the room against each other.

“A method to definitively test me on my assertion besides my medical records, I cannot provide you. You could easily claim that I’ve memorized every detail of my life. Like my husband, I do have photographic memory after all.”

Reverse psychology, Seto thought; brilliant.

 

...

 

Seto glanced over his shoulder for a fleeting moment as you entered his office before directing his attention over the Domino skyline basked in morning sunlight once again. His arms were bound behind his back; his bespoke Zegna suit defining his already broad shoulders. You considered approaching him when he was in bed in pyjamas; when his mere stance wasn’t radiating a suffocating sense of crushing authority.

“What you did was reckless.”

“Catch me,” you abruptly demanded, setting off at a sprinting pace towards him, the heavy bouquet of white blossoms weighing your wrist.

“What?” he snapped at the unexpected request, turning to find you launching yourself at him. He would only falter back a step, his reflexes sharp as crisp ice as he caught you, lifting you against his waist. You locked your legs behind him, hoping it would discourage him from releasing you. “What are you doing?” he growled. “What’s gotten into you this morning?” Holding the bouquet behind his back where your arms circles his neck, you found refuge from his ire in the crook of his neck. “What are you doing?” he repeated in a gentler register. “Get down. We need to talk.”

“No.”

“Stop being a child,” Seto chided, “get down.”

“No!” You had decided to be petulant. “No I’m going to continue being a child because that’s the only way you’ll love me.”

“What?” He had not been expecting that. “How did you come to such a ridiculous conclusion?”

“You were kinder to me after the accident when I couldn’t fend for myself more than you’ve been to me through this whole marriage.”

“So you have remembered,” Seto husked. “What did you remember?” He continued at your silence which fortified his suspicions. “Do you realize how asinine it was to not tell me?”

“This is exactly what I mean,” you whimpered, “you loved me better when you saw me as a child needing your protection. You worked through my bucket list you laughed at for being childish and you — ”

“Are you crying?” His one hand finally lifted to rest against your head. You would only nuzzle closer to him. “You’re heavy, get down so we can talk.”

“You bench three times my weight,” you retorted.

“ _How much_ ,” he demanded to know, “have you remembered?”

Your response was intentionally incoherent mumbling.

He began with a heavy sigh. “What you did in there was impulsive and borderline idiotic,” he admonished. “I would have taken care of it without you running here and throwing yourself into the fray. Your brashness could have just as easily not resolved in your favour. I don’t think you realize the gravity of the situation. That was the future of both of our corporations at stake — ”

“I’ve remembered everything Seto,” you interrupted in confession. “I knew what I was doing.”

“Since when?”

“Since I woke up the day before, after the duel.”

“How could you keep that from me? Do you realize how long I waited? Not for certain knowing if you’d ever remember?” His voice a low adjective threatening to crack.

“I just wanted you to love me.”

“For a woman capable of something as brilliant as what you pulled off in there, how is it that you manage to say the most juvenile things?”

You would say nothing. It was what you had feared the most.

A tense moment lapsed in silence. Then you felt his lips ghost over your temple. “Foolish child,” he grunted. “You should have been honest with me.”

“You liked the girl I was without the memories better.”

“She was honest with me,” Seto admitted. “There was nothing else to it.”

“I can still be that girl,” you promised.

“Of course you can,” he said blandly, “you’re the same person. What will it take for you to believe I won’t treat you any differently?”

“Come home with me and finish reading Pride and Prejudice to me.”

“It’s the middle of the work day,” Seto reminded. “I have meetings all day.”

“Fine,” you conceded disheartened, motioning to climb off, “I’ll see you at home tonight then. I suppose I should start going to mine too.”

He wouldn’t allow you to leave, grip tightening. “Does this mean you remember how to make that lunchbox you made for me?” he rasped, lips grazing the curve of your ear.

“We would need to pick up ingredients from the grocery store,” you answered animatedly, “but yes.”

“I didn’t mean today.”

“Oh.”

“When you’re better.”

“It’s always some elusive future date with you,” you accused.

Turning briskly on his heel, seemingly unburdened by your weight, he stalked the distance to his desk. “Cancel my engagements for the day,” he husked past your ear, addressing his secretary through his intercom.

The secretary in turn informed him that two of his board members were waiting for him outside, requesting a few minutes of his time. Considering it for a moment, Seto inquired what they needed from him. His secretary couldn’t say.

“I’ll only be a few minutes,” Seto assured, prompting you to get off of him when you insisted on holding on.

“I know how these go,” you defied, your muscles held taught around him, “they come talk to you for a few minutes, and then they take you away and you come back home for dinner.”

“Send them in,” he instructed his secretary, deceived by your small frame and underestimating your tenacity. “You have a reputation to uphold,” he coerced, shifting strategies as the doors opened and you stubbornly remained wrapped around him. “Get off.” He was very firm in saying your name. “I’m a man of my word. We’re going home after this.”

Finally persuaded, motioning to step off, you were joined by the two middle aged board members sauntering in. They remained suspended in motion for a moment as they witnessed you, in what they would likely dub a compromising position with your husband, disproval shading their faces grey. Apparently, young love had been hunted to extinction in the corporate jungle.

As Seto lifted you to stand on your own two feet, a grimmer expression which challenged the severity of what the board directors donned, you took the opportunity to aggravate the situation - as you often enjoyed doing - by stealing a kiss from his cheek. You would have been long dead had you not taken corporate life with a grain of salt and a bowser of humour; though admittedly, always at someone else’s expense.

Seto wouldn’t say anything, silence reigning over the vast office as he took his seat; his ominous grimace a harbinger you would receive an earful later. It was definitely worth it.

You stood beside Seto as the two gents approached.

“Mrs. Kaiba,” one acknowledged. You received his greeting with a stiff nod.

“I didn’t realize you were here,” the second added as your husband invited them to sit.

“That’s certainly very short foresight on your part,” you said. “Though I do wonder if that’s a cue for me to leave.”

“Not at all,” the director defended.

“Good, because otherwise you would have been sourly disappointed.”

Leaning back in his seat, “Bore me with the details of how you plan to waste my time,” Seto droned. “As you can see —” he gestured to you with his eyes, “— I have previous engagements to attend.”

“On the topic of an heir,” the man who had hinted for you to leave - the older of the two dressed in a predictable grey pinstripe - began, only to be interrupted by your husband.

“She is too young, I had believed this to be settled.”

“We understand,” he drawled, clearing his throat. Shifting with discomfort in his seat, he added, “though as the possibility of Mrs. Kaiba —” he also motioned towards you with his eyes, “— giving you a daughter is very likely, perhaps you should begin early...to, how do you say, try for a son - a male successor.”

You were painted thirteen shades of livid and every shade of indignation.

“If my firstborn is a daughter,” Seto growled, “she will succeed me in overtaking this corporation. If my wife is perfectly capable of running her own conglomerate, I don’t see how our daughter will fall short of making the mark.”

“It’s striking to me Seto,” you remarked, “how the patriarchal mentality is so uniform across your whole board. From Mr. Kurotsuchi telling me at the director’s banquet that I would become a part of your estate like a pot of flowers to now this. Kodama and SKO operate on a very different set of values and — ”

“Who I choose to succeed me should be none of your concern,” Seto cut in, not possessing the patience to entertain their drivel the way you did. “When the time comes, your generation will be long in your graves. So don’t concern yourselves with matters beyond your lifespan. I’m not stupid enough to be oblivious to your real motives. Coming to my office to canvas me on matters already settled is wasting my time and the good money I pay you. Not get out of my office so I can get on with my day.”

A bout of unceremonious laughter left you the moment those heavy oak doors closed. “I think you need more women on your board.”

“I need to purge the entire lot,” he disagreed. “I need new blood.”

“Of course you do my love. I’ll make sure the peasants aren’t wearing rosaries and the ladies aren’t wearing sterling silver.” He couldn’t understand why your sense of humour was so peculiar.

“What’s with the roses?” Seto questioned, ignoring your roar of laughter at his expense, reaching for the white bouquet. His brows furrowed, rewording his question, “Who gave you roses?”

Slapping his hand away from the long green stalks, you lifted away the heavy blooms, only to present them back to him

“Magnolias and roses,” you explained, “the way you always give me. White; they’re supposed to symbolize new beginnings and sincerity. I couldn’t find ice blue. Sorry. But I am wearing blue.”

“You got me flowers?” he inquired, perplexed.

“Can’t men be given flowers?”

He had never had the need to consider the thought. “I suppose there’s nothing wrong with it. Where did you get them? You didn’t have it on you at the meeting.”

“My secretary held on to them.” Slipping between his desk and his chair, you sat on his lap. “I’ll buy you a fancy race car if you’re disappointed.”

“What?” _Ooh_ , that didn’t sound friendly.

“I want my baby to have nice things,” you cooed, nestling your head against his shoulder.

“Stop that,” Seto ordered, a dangerous growl rolling in his throat.

Reaching for his intercom, “Have a driver bring a car around,” you told his secretary.

“I...appreciate the sentiment. Thank you,” he declared with much hesitance.

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but our bedroom smells like magnolias every morning and early in the evenings...and you always get me roses so...sorry, I should have asked you. Do you have a flower you like?”

“I’ve noticed.” He appraised the bouquet, turning it in one hand. “As for preferences where flowers are concerned, not until now.”

“So you like them then?”

“Anything you give me I like.”

 

...

 

“Take a left here,” Seto abruptly instructed the driver, deferring from the route home.

“Where does left go?” you asked him, leaning away from where you had been slouched against him.

“You’ll see when we get there,” he vaguely responded, snaking an arm around your small waist and pulling you back into him.

Turning your face up to him, you challenged his resolve to keep the destination a secret with eyes which rivalled a manipulative kitten. He was immune. “No,” he firmly maintained, instead curving over you to claim your lips; his fingers tilting your chin.

Peering into storming indicolite, “I’ve missed you,” you told him against his lips, his breath catching behind your own.

“I’ve been here the whole time,” Seto reminded you in a husk, kissing your temple as you rested your head against his chest again.

“You smell good,” you sighed, inhaling deeply, your arms circling his form under his suit jacket.

“Try to bury yourself any deeper and you’ll be inside my shirt,” he rasped indifferently, though he couldn’t recall the last time he had felt such exultation. Absently, he found himself planting his lips over your hairline again; holding them there.

 

...

 

As the car came to a stop by the roadside, you recognized the botanical garden from the peeking tips of the grand greenhouse nestled into the thicket of old willows. Your curious expression wouldn’t persuade Seto to afford you any clarity as he instructed his driver to find parking.

Stupefying the young girl at the ticket counter, he fixed her stunned expression with an countenance so absent of human emotion it surely made her blood run cold; as if him being there with you on a leisurely morning excursion to the gardens was an every day occasion which should inspire no surprise. For a man whose nerves were so susceptible to being grated by the most inconsequential of things, you wondered again how he tolerated your childish antics and tantrums.

Producing his wallet, Seto held out a card. While she silently processed your entrance passes, your eyes absently fell over his open wallet, finding under the clear casing a picture you recognized from his phone, one he had taken months ago at the fun fair...of you. As you reached for it as if in a trance, retrieving his card, he snapped it closed.

“Give me your wallet for a second.”

“Why?” Seto inquired, pocketing the tickets.

“I want to see something.”

“No,” he husked, suddenly defensive as he meshed your hand in his, tugging you past the gates; the cool of his wedding band pressing against your skin.

“What’s the big deal?” you challenged, following after him into the lush thicket. “It’s not like I’m going to run away with it. You married me with the most ridiculously liberal pre-nups, I already have all your money. Let me see it.”

“Very funny,” he drawled. “I didn’t bring you here to be amused by my wallet.”

“Why are we here?” you posed him the question, momentarily distracted by the scenery of mossy rocks forming precarious steps leading to narrow corridors of weaving green. Here the sky was a Sacramento green; canopies of twisting Japanese maples only penetrated by gold sunlight stealing through its dense foliage; a carnival of iridescent glitter shards dancing above your head.

“You’ve said you wanted to walk under a wisteria tunnel.”

“I’ve never told you that,” you disputed, “and it wasn’t on my bucket list. How do you know that?”

With a firm grip on your hand, he began climbing the shallow steps.

“From an interview.”

“I didn’t know the garden in Domino had a wisteria tunnel,” you admitted.

“It was a recent installation.”

Memory of that aforementioned interview resurfacing, “I said that years ago Seto,” you questioned, receiving only his silence.

At the end of your ascent, your taunting spirit fell away in awe of the stone bridges curving over jade green ponds. You walked over plush green grass; the water lined with immaculately manicured shrubs and flowering trees beneath the endless canopy. Weeping willows drew circles in the water as the wind whistled through its branches, stirring wooden boats tied to stone walls. Sand floors of a traditional rock garden lined the other side of your path.

“Seto this is beautiful,” you breathed, unwittingly drawing yourself closer to him, “this is...thank you so much.”

In a word, it was peaceful, breathtakingly so. At this time of day there were hardly any other visitors; the only other couple you passed too engrossed in themselves to take any notice of you. This was a relief as you were certain Seto’s sharp tailored suit would be unnecessarily conspicuous against the quaint scenery even before those storming cerulean eyes came into focus.

Even when the scenery was taking your breath away, his eyes always fell on you. Seto didn’t care for how bright the stars were shining, or how summer had persuaded the trees to pour forth all their leaves and blossoms; he only saw you. Seeing you content beside him had become his obsession.

In moments such as this, on days where he chose to leave his office to idle about a garden with you, you were grateful for your memories of the man he was before.

 

At the foot of the bridge, an ice cream vendor stood, his small cart painted a rustic white, a wide umbrella which served no purpose under the tree canopy propped over his station.

“Seto!” Your grip on his hand tightened, your other hand tugging on his suit sleeve. “Buy me ice cream!” You wouldn’t deny that your motivations didn’t spring at least marginally from the desire to peek at his wallet one more time.

Remarking how you were no different from a child — though he was undeniably endeared by your reaction — he stopped before the old ice cream vendor. If the old man recognized the both of you, he made no motion to bring attention to it, kindly inquiring what flavours you would like.

“A scoop of mochi and a scoop of mango for me, and... is that coffee? — ” The man nodded. “ — A double scoop of coffee for my husband.” Smiling, the old man obliged; his wrinkles deepening as his stretching lips lifted his weathered cheeks at the mirth which fizzled from you as you called Seto your husband.

“I don’t need one,” Seto corrected, fishing for his wallet.

“Of course you do. Don’t listen to him,” you told the old vendor, waving your husband off.

  
Opening his wallet, he slipped out a note. The concept of cash seemed almost too analogous for him. Inching closer, at a moment where his attention had strayed, you snatched it from his grasp, wide eyes pouring over the picture you had only managed a glance at before; your hair a whirlwind about you, looking over your shoulder, eyes reflecting him surely - you assumed from that wide smile - the sky behind you a brilliant ultraviolet. You couldn’t recall him ever taking that picture. Your heartbeat quickened; seeing his affection towards you in such plain sight was surreal.

Thrusting a pristine ten thousand yen note into the vendor’s hand for the transaction which required only several hundred, insisting he keep the change, Seto fixed you with a chastising glare, demanding back his wallet.

You wondered if he saw the open display of fondness and attachment as a sign of weakness or fragility or if he had invested so many years into constructing his perfectly taciturn image that the discovery mortified his pride.

Holding his ice cream as if it were the worst fate one could be subjected to; the sticky cream slowly trickling on to his fingers over the napkin, he handed you yours, before seizing your free hand. Noticing the unabashed smile which lifted your face, eyes pinning his firm clasp, “You’re ridiculously easy to amuse,” Seto commented, leading you onto the bridge.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you challenged, stealing a glance at his hand in yours, swinging lightly as you walked.

“So long as your source of amusement doesn’t stray,” was all he said, appearing to stare into the distance, though those severe sapphire orbs would not miss one glance you stole of your tangled hands.

At the peek of the bridge, you urged him to stop. “We should take a picture here.”

“You can’t keep recording everything you do in case you forget it again.”

“No,” you assured him, “I just want to have things to look back on.”

“For when my hair is grey?” Seto questioned, a teasing edge to his tone; the kind which implied he had the dirt on all of your deepest secrets.

“...You listened didn’t you?”

“If you’re accusing me of eavesdropping on your thoughts — ” he fished for his phone in his inner breast pocket, “— it wasn’t intentional. I was attempting —”

“I wish you could do it more often.”

“What?” His eyes lifted from the screen of his phone, a quizzical brow arched over his bewildered expression.

“I just think we would understand each other better that way,” you reasoned.

“I recall you advocating to me on how even married couples needed boundaries.”

“I didn’t allow you very many boundaries when I was in that comma did I?”

“I suppose not. How do you want this?”

  
“Child,” the old vendor hailed from the foot of the bridge, hiking up the steps with discernible difficulty. “Let me take that for you,” he offered.

“Oh no...we couldn’t possibly...”

“You think you’re the only young couple who takes pictures here? I know how to use one of those smart phones.” He turned to Seto. “I know who you are young man, I would much sooner jump off this bridge before I drop your phone. Give it here.”

Exchanging a pleading glance with Seto, you almost reached for your phone before he held out his own.

“Back in my day, telephones didn’t look like they came from an alien ship,” the old man muttered under his breath as he plodded back a few steps, before turning to face you once more, the camera angled at the both of you. “You can do everything besides make calls with them these days,” he groused, focusing the lens. You took a step closer to Seto, snaking your arm around his. “Make fancy movies...change faces...my grandchildren knew how to use one before they could hold chopsticks...Well don’t look like strangers. Have you never seen her before young man? Put your arm around her.” He clicked his tongue, and to your surprise, instead of a clever and scathing remark in retort, Seto obliged, his free arm slipping around your waist to hold you. You rested your head against him in response, as the vendor counted down from three.

Parting from the vendor, his greetings to you were short. “You should add him to that virtual reality,” you suggested, watching the old man trudge down the stone steps.

“I can,” he considered. “I thought you wanted nothing to do with that place anymore?”

“I think if you’re there the whole time, I’ll be just fine,” you murmured, pulling yourself flush against his arm.

“Why do you smile like you’re about to cry?” Seto appraised you with a scowl.

“Because I think I just might.”

“Have I done something to offend you?” He grew concerned. You watched him for a long moment, trying - and failing terribly - to form a sensible response.

The thoughts you couldn’t fathom into cohesive sentences came pouring forth in fragments of nonsense. “No no of course not, you’re just — you’re wearing the wedding ring I put on you and you carry around a picture of me in your wallet, like that’s so...it seems so unlike you and...and you left work just because I asked you to, cancelling I don’t know how many meetings just to walk around these gardens and you buy me ice cream and hold my hand and it’s summer morning and everything is so pretty here and I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve you and all of this. I didn’t think this is what being married to you would look like.” Your arms moving animatedly as your motioned to everything from his ring to the ice cream, face contorting further and further with each declaration, the sentence itself slowly deteriorated to a train of babbling punctuated by sniffles. “...And for so long I was just afraid, it all seems so silly now.”

“Stop that, you’re not a child,” he chided, wiping at the stray tears which had slipped.

“No one’s ever bought me ice cream before!” you choked. “Or carried my picture.”

“Stop making a scene,” Seto scolded. “I carry a picture of Mokuba too.”

Somehow, that only elevated your agitations.

“I’m sure half the men in this country have you in their wallets or as a screensaver on their phone,” Seto added bitterly, pulling you along.

 

...

 

Under the canopy of wisteria, the sun glistening through the amethyst blossoms pouring like delicate chandeliers, you studied Seto’s expression carefully as he attempted with a great degree of irritation to cure himself of his syrupy fingers; his only aid an equally sticky napkin.

“Don’t look so amused,” he grunted, noticing your up-turned lip.

“Would you like me to lick that for you?” you purred in retort, earning the unforgiving gaze of those sharp sapphire.

“Don’t tempt me in a place like this,” he spurned, and under your offer, recoiled as you reached out for them.

“Relax,” you cooed, wrapping a wet wipe you had retrieved from your purse around his fingers. He motioned to relieve your hands of the wipe, but you wouldn’t allow it, meticulously gliding the tissue over each finger.

“You know Seto,” you began, tone ground to one of sincerity, “you’ll call this cheesy or cloying, but I’ve wanted to tell you...it wasn’t intentional, me forgetting you. In fact if I had a choice, you would be the one thing I would want to remember, over my career and my company and even the man who raised me. If you could look back on it and remember not me forgetting you but the me who fell in love with you twice, I would like that.” You couldn’t meet his eyes as you said this. You couldn’t tell what his expression looked like, though he wouldn’t speak. “And I fall in love with you every day; every morning I wake up to you.” Scrunching the dried wipe, you slipped it into your pocket. “And I don’t know what you see in me but I’m grateful for it everyday. I’ll be good to you Seto” you promised, bringing his hands to your lips; eyes lifting to find intense sapphire. You took a deep breath against his fingers. “I’ll be really good to you.” Your lips quivered, stubborn tears slipping and tracing over already smeared trails.

Sighing, he wordlessly embraced you. He stood there, silently, his arms wrapped around your back and buried in your hair. The wind blew, it stopped, and it blew again, rustling the blushing wisteria.

“I see enough to spend the rest of my life with you,” Seto said. Loving you had become an instinct. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do tell me what you think because when I don’t hear anything for fluff, I subconsciously assume you hate it and steer towards drama, so please let me know if the fluff is a welcome change or if I should have stuck to plot to keep the story relevant.


	55. Back Hug

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Important note: I have started co-authoring a new Seto fic with Est, which is partially the reason this took this long to write out, and it is a Priest/Pharaoh Seto fic. I’ve noticed a severe lack of those and ancient Seto needs some appreciation we feel :). So if you’re interested, “Kingdoms of the Sun” - for any of you who picked up the reference good on you! - is up now!* 
> 
>  
> 
> So I named this chapter after the SNSD song and I thought it captured well the overall feel of the fic. I highly recommend listening to it, but being a devout fan I may be biased. We are getting to tie up the loose ends and I PROMISE this fic will have no more tragedy based drama. It will all be fluff, I promise. I know I said this last time but I swear I’ve gotten it out of my system. 
> 
> Even if this fic ends, the universe will truly never end for me, this series is like my baby so it will always be left unfinished. At the end of the day, even a book never really ends, the author merely chooses a place in time to end the book, not the story. 
> 
> So on that note, enjoy!

 

Seto woke up at some twilight hour; lilac melding with gold beyond the bedroom windows. Summer air was pouring in waves through the open French doors. Relieving his fingers from between the pages of the book he had been reading to you — now forgotten over the sheets — his eyes flickered to you; your face nestled against his neck, a soft purr escaping you with the rise and fall of your breaths. You had made a body pillow out of him, straddling his whole form.

Focusing bleary indicolite orbs past you, the slight inclination of his lip faded as he trained his eyes on the chiffon-furred feline curled on you above the comforter. “Get off,” the young chairman hissed. “You’re heavy, you mangy weasel.” It was then he noticed the brush of another whip of fur, stroking his cheek. Turning his face, moulded with a severe exasperation, and with all the seriousness, “You’re on my pillow,” he said to the orange tabby.

Turning at the call of his voice, the kitten elongated as if an unfolding accordion, shoving her behind into Seto’s face, painting him several shades of incensed, though with your sleeping form to guard, he would remain very still. “If your owner wasn’t sleeping, I would pitch you across the room,” he threatened. Indifferent to his threat, the kitten treaded his pillow to settle against his hair, wedging between his head and the headboard. “Look at me,” Seto grunted, eyeing Suki as she leapt off the bed, “I’m talking to rodents now.” Maybe he did need more rest than he claimed.

“Seto,” your voice called for him in a muffled murmur.

He acknowledged you with a throaty hum, his palm soothing your back as you stirred.

“Don’t throw my babies across the room.”

“You were awake?”

Ignoring his words you scooped the sleeping kitty into your arms, cradling her between your chest and his. Seto merely watched on with acute irritation, hissing as her claws sank in through his shirt when her paws kneaded his chest before settling.

“Did daddy scare you with his big scary words?” you cooed, nuzzling your nose between her ears.

“Those hair balls are no children of mine,” Seto spurned, “or yours.”

“Don’t listen to him,” you murmured, “mummy loves you.”

“When did you become so ridiculous?”

“Stop being such a sour puss,” you teased. “After her and Suki, I still love you.”

“You have a terrible sense of humour.”

You mumbled a flippant comeback, one incoherent to him — with good reason, it made no sense to you either. The three of you remained in that state of silence for a few long moments, listening to the soft whir of the wind, before you elected to interrupt. “I want a do-over for our grocery store date. I’m craving ice cream and salted pretzels.”

“Are you determined to make it through your entire bucket list in one day?”

“Are we going to the beach later and swimming in the ocean at midnight?”

“What? No,” he growled. “I have schedules to keep tomorrow.’

“Then I don’t see how we’re going to get through my whole bucket list today.”

Narrowing his eyes for a moment at those words he finally conceded. “I don’t think I’ve met a woman as difficult as you,” Seto said. “Fine, get dressed.”

“Like you would know what women are like,” you contested, slipping away from him while perching Ryu beside him on the bed. “You could have slept with fifty more women and you still wouldn’t know what we’re thinking.”

He disputed your flagrant derision over the count of his previous partners toll with some sharp words you wouldn’t wait to hear, disappearing into the bathroom.

The next Seto heard was your shrill scream, instinct launching him out of bed, dread churning at the pit of his stomach.

“What happened?” he gruffly inquired, materializing behind you. “Are you alright?” Studying your shuddering form; both palms clasped over your mouth, he followed your line of vision to the decapitated rodent lying in a pile of its own blood in the middle of the bathroom floor. Behind it sat Suki, presenting you the dead rat as if a prize to be had. “Christ,” he grunted with repulsion, stomping around the oozing puddle of dirty scarlet, reaching for the roll of toilet paper.

“Ew, no, Seto don’t touch it!” you bleated in disgust.

“I don’t trust that weasel of yours to not drag it around the bedroom while we wait for a maid who will likely have the same reaction as you,” he said, picking up the headless rodent wrapped in a bundle of tissue, and disposing of it in the rubbish can. “Although,” he considered with an odd sense of satisfaction to his tone, appraising Suki as he allowed the lid of the automated bin to drop, “if the hairball is willing to make itself useful around the mansion, it may not be a nuisance after all.”

“What?”

“We have a pest problem clearly, and we need an exterminator called, but your over-pampered racoon over there is contributing to the household.”

“Are you praising her for bringing us a half eaten rat?” you questioned him incredulously.

“Yes.”

“No Suki, don’t listen to your dad,” you scolded the loudly purring feline rubbing against your husband’s leg. “Bad girl, bad.”

You observed how Seto didn’t dispute how you titled him that time around, a smirk ever so elusive, curling up his lip.

...

The tiles scrubbed clean of the blood stain, you leaned against the bathroom doorframe with the shirt he had been wearing wrapped around your forearms, his warmth still faintly lingering. You watched Seto’s hunched form over the sink, built arms flexing as they threw cold water over his face.

“Seto, you know that I trust you...don’t you?” Those words which would otherwise be reassuring held grim foreboding under the hesitation lacing your tone.

Twisting the faucet closed, he leaned forward with his arms anchored against the edge of the sink, his undivided attention scrutinizing your every detail; he was hunting for clues.

“It’s not that I don’t trust your decisions — ” you faltered.

“Spit it out.”

“Where exactly are Yukari and Hideji?”

“You know where they are.”

“Yes...and no. I’ve — I’ve been researching, and... I understand that being immersed in a virtual environment for extended periods of time can leave permanent damage to the brain and — Will Yukari be alright?”

“Are you sympathizing for the woman who tried to kill you?”

“Where are they Seto?”

“You’re too soft,” he snarled, reaching for the towel. He released an exasperated sigh against the towel. “I’ve taken care of it. Don’t waste your time worrying about it.”

You strode to his side. “Tell me,” you demanded, ripping the towel away from him, though his fingers remained latched on to the edges.

Stepping to face you, his breath washing over your skin, his brows knitted as he appraised the defiance spreading thickly over your features. “They’re being held at a facility in an induced state of unconsciousness.”

“Turn them over to the authorities,” you dared to say.

“Have you lost your mind?” he growled. “Have you already forgotten what happened the last time?”

“How could I forget?” You cast your gaze down. “How many times did I almost lose you?”

“Then what’s with this mother Theresa act all of a sudden?” Seto snapped. “Get your head together. We’ve done this all before. I’m doing what’s best for you.”

“I don’t want another man’s blood on your hands Seto.”

“Another man’s?” he challenged.

“You can think I’m a child all you want but you can’t honestly believe I don’t know what happened to Wakamura.”

“I’m telling you,” he cursed, “I had nothing to do with that traitor hanging himself.”

“Sure — ”

“I’m telling you the truth,” Seto interrupted, though those blue eyes remained ambiguous as they burned.

“You can’t just keep your enemies in a state of comatose.”

“I can do worse, don’t test me.”

“Like coercing a man to suicide.”

“No!” he barked. “Like digitizing their minds and reducing them to human vegetables.”

You gasped, “Seto you wouldn’t — you haven’t.”

“Like I said there are inevitable things in my past you’re better off not knowing, now do you want to go to the grocery store or not?” With those words as a closing remark — conversations always seemed to end on his terms, when he grew tired of the topic, he stalked off into the bedroom. “It’s looking grey outside. I don’t want to see you in something you’ll catch a cold in.”

“I’m going to bed,” you announced, brushing past him towards the bed.

“In the middle of the evening?”

“You keep secrets and I go to bed in the middle of the evening, we’re cute and quirky that way.”

“We’re doing this again. Don’t be like this,” Seto groaned, following after you, away from the doors to the closet.

“Don’t be like what — don’t be like what Seto?” You spun on your heel to face up at him. “What am I being like? A child? A petulant toddler? Immature — out of control? Out of your control? Just — are they going to be okay? What have you done with Ashikaga and that daughter who almost became our sister-in-law, what have you done with them? You can’t dispose people like their expired research and development projects. I don’t want you to do that!”

He seemed stunned for a moment, nonplussed even. Then he silently turned away, a severe line etched between his eyes; marching around the bed. Retrieving his cellphone he dialled a number, fingers assaulting the keys with pointed displeasure. “It’s me. I need a matter taken care of...It’s with regards to what we discussed...I need this taken care of quietly...Fine...I hope you know who you will be answering to if you screw this up.”

Hanging up, your husband’s eyes darted to find you across the room. “What are you doing not getting dressed?”

“Huh?”

“Have lunch with me tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll like what you will hear. Drop it until then and get dressed if you still want me to take you out to buy — ” his lips twisted sourly — “ice cream and salted pretzels.

“Are you sure you’re not pregnant again?”

“After this past week, I’m like thirty percent sure,” you told him, disappearing into the walk-in closet.

“What?” His agitated voice followed, hot on your heel.

“Relax, I’m joking. What were you saying about the weather?”

“I said bring a scarf.”

...

  
Smothered in a grey cashmere scarf, you stood before him in an off-white, button up cotton dress with sprigs of yellow forsythia embroidered on the short flounce sleeves. “Happy now?” you groused, earning only an expression of indifference — or perhaps that was the face of smug victory, you couldn’t be certain. “I look ready hike the North Pole. I also can’t breathe.”

Seto on the other hand was inexorable in wearing a disguise of some form, stubbornly slipping on his navy duster over his black jeans and shirt. Your scarf was not intended to be a disguise, he had contested, it was merely a precaution from the cold skies threatening rain; that it serves doubly as a disguise was an added convenience. He would not be persuaded to look ridiculous in disguise.

Your bid to then convince him to also wear a scarf had been equally fruitless, his response to your nagging a cheap trick; a distracting peck on the lips as he snatched you up into his arms, carrying you out. The motion had become an unconscious habit of his following the accident.

He swept a set of car keys from the rows upon rows suspended in glass on his side of the closet as he strode out.

Leaving the bedroom, indifferent to the strain of your weight and your protests, Seto tore out the door, nearly trampling a petrified maid you did not recognize — you didn’t think much of it, you couldn’t remember the faces of the majority of the staff serving the household. Falling into a sharp ninety degree bow, she wished you a pleasant evening; remaining frozen in that attitude as Seto marched away without acknowledging the greeting.

The encounter hardly registered as you snuggled closer to Seto, nestling your cheek against his neck, always finding comfort in the warmth of his bare skin seeping into yours.

The second maid who was unfortunate enough to meet Seto head to head at the third floor landing mirrored this motion, announcing her greeting as if she were delivering a response to a commanding officer. It was then you perceived the shift in ambience; the lack of animosity in their gaze. By the third maid who meekly bowed her head, stepping to the side, never daring to meet your eyes, that you suspected some hidden play your husband had not revealed to you. There were no hushed murmurs in the corners of the house, swarming to fill your ears like a drone from a broken hive. There was an impression of reverence in the maid servants who whisked out of sight to make themselves scarce.

“Did you re-train the staff?” you asked Seto, lifting your head to meet his eyes.

“With the exception of a few senior staff, I had them all replaced.”

“You — what?”

“You didn’t expect me to keep them in my employ after what you told me, did you?” he asked peering down at you, his hand on the garage door handle.

“You fired over a hundred employees because of one word from me?”

“Did you have more to say?”

“No..but Seto that’s...”

“It’s fine then.” Entering the garage he lifted one hand, unlocking the silver Aston Martin he intended to drive. “It took longer than I expected to train a new batch. They would have been replaced much sooner otherwise.”

Setting you down beside the passenger door, Seto held it open and shielded your head as you stepped in.

“You said you fired everyone,” you asked again as he climbed into the driver’s seat. “So, was there a girl called Natsumi Sakamoto on that list? Could you check?” He raised a quizzical brow at the oddly specific request. “She was...someone — is someone I need. Please check to see if she has been let go and if she has please do whatever you can to bring her back.”

Studying you with a critical eye for a moment he inquired after your reasons. You explained that she had been a source of comfort; an unlikely friend perhaps and he would need no more persuasion.

...

  
Automatic doors slid open to reveal absolute chaos. It should have been common knowledge that a supermarket would be a battle ground immediately following rush hour on a Monday night; young couples on the hunt for dinner ingredients, mothers caught in a frenzy as they sought to procure some ridiculously obscure item for a homework assignment due the following morning, and the endless din of shopping carts meeting at the end of aisles; the cymbals for the chorus of crying infants. It was so traumatic that you found yourself wondering why you longed for shrieking bundles of joy of your own so earnestly.

It should have been common knowledge, except as Seto had so impassively remarked, it was common knowledge, in other words, knowledge possessed by commoners.

Each moment spent submerged in a state of total ambush of the senses, your husband’s expression worsened; brows knitting and severe lines etching over his features in places you did not think possible. It became obvious to him that the leisurely wandering he had numbed himself to endure for your sake would have to be drastically shortened.

Seto snatched a basket as you entered, pausing momentarily to read the signs which hung above the aisles. Then with a firm hand over your back, he began weaving through the crowds

The pandemonium helped distract the hordes of shoppers, though nothing could distract from severe blue eyes glowering from six feet above, and the two of you quickly became the receptacles of curious whispers and surreptitiously stolen glances. A duster coat may not have been his signature, but People magazine’s most eligible bachelor was unmistakable in appearance, especially when he was adamant in maintaining the same scowl he had worn on the cover.

“This is why you should have worn something less — something which makes you stick out less like a sore thumb,” you hissed in a harsh whisper, peering up to meet his eyes.

“And you really believe that I’m all they’re looking at,” he countered. “If you think a scarf is all it takes to — ”

“They know it’s me because no other woman could stand beside you and tolerate that scowl so casually.”

“So you admit you’re not normal then.” A smirk cut through the grave expression which had sunken into his features.

“Are you calling me mental?”

“If the shoe fits.” That smug smirk widened. You had played right into his hands.

“Stop that!” You knocked into him, a smile of your own lifting your cheeks; eyes tracing the floor tiles. His sense of humour was certainly odd and difficult to discern, and at first you had mistaken the rare playful remarks he doled out without the slightest change in his dispassionate expression for arrogance, though now you knew him better.

“Stop playing coy,” Seto continued his taunt, the hand behind your back reaching to hook around your waist, pulling you closer.

“Any closer and I’ll be inside your shirt,” you teased, reciting his words back to him.

“Is that not what you wanted?” He plucked a packet of Lindt bonbon chocolates off the shelf, tossing them into the basket. Pausing to consider, he grabbed two more.

“I didn’t know you liked those...” you remarked curiously, “...so much.”

“I don’t, the thought of it gives me a cavity. You do.”

“How...?”

“You leave the wrappers all over the bedroom.” Seto’s scowl deepened, before marching on with you under his arm.

“One time, I left them one — Ooh those pretzels. Those are the ones I like.”

Handing you the basket, he reached for a bag of salted pretzels. “How many do you need?”

“Just the one, I get sick of most things pretty easily.”

With an acknowledging grunt he dropped it in the basket.

Passing a congregation of overzealous high schoolers — boasting their idol-enthusiast status with handmade boards littered with hearts and names of their favourites cut out from neon coloured paper, likely on their way to some concert or fan meeting — who seemed to have been debating whether to approach you from a distance, Seto tucked your head into him, making a sharp left out of the confectionary aisle.

He stood silently before the freezers, as if presenting them to you. It took you a moment to understand this.

“Can I buy more than one flavour?” You turned to him with childlike mirth.

“You’re not five,” Seto grunted, “buy whatever you want.”

Secretly he found the innocence endearing. Not that you needed his permission for anything, but that you always made an effort to involve him in your decisions — no matter how inconsequential — was finally beginning to feel as if you had accepted him as your family; your only family.

As you leaned into the open freezer, stretching your arm for a shelf above you, Seto found his arm lifting, reaching his hand unconsciously over your head, fingers curled, overcome as if in a trance by an inexplicable desire to feel your hair under his fingertips.

Instead he balled his fingers into a fist, lowering it to his side as you turned to him, hugging three cartons of ice cream under your arms. With a wide smile which always inspired strange feelings alien to him, you dropped them into the basket; strawberry cheesecake and pistachio, along with a blood orange sorbet gelato.

“I think it’s time we go,” Seto noted, catching the erupting bursts of light from phone cameras in his peripheral.

Fans and followers lurked at the turn of aisles, congregating into small mobs, timidly marvelling at your unlikely presence. It was in every sense unremarkable, the sight of a couple grocery shopping, and so given the couple in question, it was all the more extraordinary.

You nodded, taming your hair under a make-shift hood of the coiling scarf.

 

You could never have imagined that standing in a supermarket queue on an overcast Monday night, with your husband’s hand woven through yours; his other hand holding a grocery basket, exchanging pointless conversations and teasing remarks would be one of the most content moments of your life. It was almost as if every turn of your life had been conspiring to lead you up to this moment.

It was more of a rush than your first acting accolade and every one after that; more of a thrill than being cast as the lead of the drama based on your favourite manga.

You suddenly understood all those frivolous school girls swooning over their favourite idols. He had never been yours — though in hindsight you wondered how you had never paid any mind to his imposing presence or infamous reputation — but you imagined the tingle which curled your toes and raced your heart was the same as theirs.

“Are you really that happy?” Seto would ask you.

“Yes,” you would respond, pushing up against his arm. “You’re here, what else would I possibly need to make me happy?”

And you would not know how those words drowned him in a euphoria he had abandoned hope to ever feel, a very long time ago.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!
> 
> And if you do read Kingdoms of the Sun, do let us know what you think also! 
> 
> Her dress: https://pin.it/kg2yph4hysfpsq


	56. Black Dress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, this chapter is inspired by the song “Black Dress” by CLC, and if you haven’t listened to that song...what are you all even doing? 
> 
> On another note, this fic and everything else will come to a very long halt for the next few weeks...possibly months or at least see very slow progress. Real life has decided to remind me it exists. Certain times in the last few day, changing my name and appearing ten years later in a different country suddenly seems very appealing. 
> 
> I will probably write Kingdoms of the Sun in whatever chance I get because I have an amazing co-author I don’t want to let down. 
> 
> Anyone writing finals/midterms/other papers, good luck!
> 
> Enjoy!

You woke up to warm lips dancing across the valley between your shoulder blades. He smelt of magnolia. Alright, no, he smelt of cool notes of cypre and the warm musk of sweat, but the air that summer morning, as with every morning of the season, smelt of magnolia, stirred with a kiss of English Roses; climbing your bedroom wall outside.

His arms roped with muscle coiled around your bare form, tightened. “I’m here.”

“What?”

“Did you have a nightmare? You were calling my name in your sleep.” Seto’s lips having found sanctuary against the curve of your neck, his hoarse voice newly disturbed from sleep, rumbled through his chest against your naked back.

“I don’t know,” you said in a disoriented murmur against the pillow. “I don’t remember. What time is it?”

“Almost five.”

“I’m sorry I woke you early.”

“You should have been sorry,” he husked, never sparing the opportunity to be smug, even first thing in the morning, “when you were screaming for me not to stop all night until early hours of the morning.”

“And I believe,” you returned, never missing the opportunity to guard your honour, “it was you who stumbled into the room with me, talking about how you couldn’t wait to have your way with me.”

“It was due compensation for what you made me endure all evening wading between your fans foaming at the mouth at the grocery store.”

“I had two spoonfuls if my ice cream,” you groused.

“Yes because you insisted on feeding me the rest.”

You allowed a content giggle; sighing deeply. If you had turned in that moment, you wouldn’t have seen the brewing emotion behind his closed lids, though perhaps you may have caught the spillage of warmth animating his usually stoic features.

Overcome with that strange emotion he was learning to identify as happiness, he posed to you a question you wouldn’t have expected from the man not only at this ungodly hour, but any hour of the day. Though perhaps it was that transient feeling of being suspended between sleep and reality which disarmed his usual inhibitions enough to ask a question so vulnerable. “Are you happy here?...With me?” His voice which had descended a full register drove needles into your spine.

Your soft form pinned against the bed by his wiry frame, you shuddered.

“Are you not?”

“No I — ”

“You have no obligation to answer if it makes you uncomfortable. Do you want to use the shower first?” You perceived the dry shift in tone, though by the way he held you, lingering in that same place; you recognized it as a hopeful longing for a difficult answer which may still come.

To you, it wasn’t difficult at all. It had stunned you at first, certainly, to be ambushed with such a delicate question by the same man who had had your wrists bound with leather only a few hours ago — though admittedly upon your request — but never difficult.

You twisted in place, writhing against the sheets in an attempt to overthrow the crushing log that was his form off of you. You turned in his embrace, planting your face against the dip of his raised clavicles, fingers latching his back.

“Was I not clear last night? And every other night? Waking up to you is my favourite part of my day,” you whispered in confession.

“When we are not being intimate as we were last night,” Seto rephrased, “do you still want to be with me?”

“Of course I do. Where is this coming from?”

“You haven’t asked me for a divorce in a while,” he husked.

A wry smile curving your cheek you nodded. “That should be your confirmation that I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.”

He acknowledged that with a pensive hum.

“So shower,” you resumed, “...mind if I use it first?”

Another hum. You wouldn’t move, your index tracing abstract swirls on his pecs. “Are you not getting up?”

“In a bit.”

“Remember I’m coming to pick you up for lunch later,” Seto said, “clear your schedule and wear something that won’t give me a cavity.”

Distractedly you hummed.

“You’re not listening,” Seto accused, apprehending your wandering finger as he lifted your chin from where your head was tucked into his chest.

“I got you,” you purred, heavy mischief laced into your voice. Slipping away; leaving a playful peck on his cheek, you were oblivious to the hungered gaze which traced every sway of your bare contours following you into the bathroom.

...

The scalding water softening the evidence of last night’s affairs numbed to a dull tenderness between the junction of your thighs; the torrential pour a roar in your ears, you didn’t hear the glass door opening and closing behind you. Though perhaps that was more to his credit of being inhumanely stealthy when he desired to he — on the rare occasion he wasn’t assaulting door frames with heavy handed blows of swinging doors.

He got your attention when rough palms ghosted over your protruding ribs to cup your breasts, pressing himself against you from behind. His arousal coupled with the dangerous lilt of his voice betrayed his intentions before he declared them outright. Pressing you against the cold wall, his fingers webbed through yours; surrendering your palms against the wall. A sharp gasp ripped from you at the touch of freezing ceramic tile. “Seto...”

“That’s what I like hearing from you first thing in the morning,” he rasped, his shaft teasing your core between your spread legs.

“I have a meeting...early,” you mewled in protest.

He couldn’t be convinced. “Call it payback for waking me up early,” he said suppressing a chuckle; sweeping your mane of wet hair over your left shoulder. His lips claimed the space he had made, sucking the pulse of your neck.

Releasing your right hand, he forced two fingers between your lips, choking a moan which has climbed your throat at the sensation of his lips. “Suck it like a good girl,” he said in command. Allowing your tongue to lap his fingers, he tore them away, his motion punctuated with a noisy pop as your lips release him. Sliding his fingers coated with your saliva between your body and the wall, he hooked them into you, eliciting a drawn cry from your parted lips. Your head fell back on to him, panting at the jolt of current which had surged at his touch which had lacked warning.

“Maybe that was unnecessary, you’re already wet,” he muttered, though mostly to himself.

“Seto...how are you...not tired?”

“Brace yourself,” was all the caution he afforded, before you felt his hardened arousal gouging you. It was hardly enough time to blink, and your breath stitched in your chest; mangling his name in your throat. Your head fallen against his firm chest, your eyes encountered darkened blue above, any tender emotion you had witnessed of him in the bedroom replaced with impatient lust.

Thrusting into you, he released a groan of discontent. Leaving you, with the weight of his body he pressed you against the glass wall; a hand guiding your hips back into him, sheathing his length, while the other slipped to fondle your breast. There was a hot metal biting into your flushed flesh; he had worn his wedding band.

In some distant recess of your mind, maybe you even wondered why, though at the surface of it...nothing.

Under the warm spray of water, a frisson encompassed your body at his momentum. His chuckle smothered against the curve of your ear. “I love you.” The tender longing in those words was the antithesis of how he made love to you. “That thing you always say...” he said between laborious pants, “that you must have saved some country... I never thought any woman could make me understand that so well.”

Only your husband could form such cohesive thought under the heat of sex which threatened to obliterate the both of you. He was greedy, greedy for all of you. And it still wasn’t enough.

And you thought you understood what he had meant by calling you his drug. He was addicting. From your lips however, you could only keen his name in response.

The rising steam enclasped the cold glass, and your nails clawed lines on the fogged walls, over and over.

“Why do I want you so much?” Seto demanded from you. All his past affairs seemed tedious, bland even; he wondered how he had enjoyed any of those escapades. “Why is it that I’m frustrated when I can’t see you at work?” His arousal filled you deeper, swelling and forcing apart your walls when any other man would be coming undone.

“You’re in so deep,” you voiced inadvertently a thought you had no conscious memory forming. The words escaped you in a moan, or perhaps a sob. It was delicious delirium and he laughed at the sight, pleased with what he had made of you.

“You’re not listening,” he said to himself, seeing how your head fell forward, drowning in carnal passion with each rough thrust. “Maybe I rather you didn’t.”

Somehow you strung the words together to the contrary. To have unravelled a man of Seto’s caliber, to see that ruthless sapphire gaze through bedroom eyes, you were in raptures.

The friction broke your stance. Suddenly there were no bones in your legs, and you could feel your whole form collapsing into yourself.

“A little longer,” Seto rasped, pressing warm lips against your temple. “...hold on for me a little longer.”

You couldn’t; you never could. Your vision hazed with a thick mist, and you cried out for him. He kissed you again in the high of your ecstasy. If he husked, commending you for being good, it vaporized into the hot steam before it found your ears.

You found a sliver of conscious awareness when his pulses grew broken and shallow. It still drew you mad. His thick erection throbbed, your walls clenching around him as he pressed himself deeper still until he could hold it in no longer.

You felt that indulgent heat of his seed spilling into you, and you allowed him a lustful moan.

“You know I love feeling you come into me,” you murmured as you felt him grow heavy against you, holding you closer.

He filled your ear with a throaty hum. “Of course you do.” Smug bastard.

He was certainly a different man after the passed months, though in those moments it felt you had done little to wear away at his arrogance at all. You were glad; to a great extent, his ego defined him.

  
...

Seto had left for work while you were still lazing about the closet, and fumbling at your vanity. Pressing a firm kiss against your cheek, he had reminded once more in a voice so stern it reminded you of a school master, to dress appropriately for the occasion of lunch. He had taken the liberty of pointing explicitly at certain combinations of bralettes and mini skirts, stressing he not see you later when he came for you.

At your office he would still be rendered nonplussed as you rose from your desk to greet him. “Could you brood any harder?” you asked intrigued, observing how his expression was etched with more creases than a dehydrated prune.

“I employ morons — ” Seto began before his eyes flickered up from his phone screen.

Suspended mid step, those royal blue orbs scanned the length of your form; from the fitted black blazer accented with satin lapels to the white dress shirt only done up to cover the bridge of your lace bra, your thumb hooked into the pocket of your narrow dress pants; the rest of your fingers peeking with a cherry red manicure. From your black stilettos they shot up to your scarlet lips — perplexity transiently evident between the knit of his brows as he appraised your slicked pony tail.

“We match!” you said enthused; his silence heavy. And with the exception of that navy tie, indeed you did.

Your eyed the swallow of his Adam’s apple. He cleared his throat, eyes wishing to happen upon anything but you.

“Reservations,” Seto said suddenly stiff, “I don’t want to be late.”

Marching forward, he clasped your hand.

You would be frustratingly oblivious to how he stood that much closer to you in the elevator down; the sharper than usual glares he directed at anyone who’s eyes dared to wander to you in his guard.

He had brought a driver. Guiding you into the backseat, he retrieved a jewellery box carved entirely of jade. Stripping the simple silver chain you had chosen, he laid your raised collarbones with two strands of diamonds bound on one side with a dainty bow woven of white gold and studded with more diamonds.

“You bought another one?” Your tone bordered accusing.

“I saw it and thought of you,” he dismissed, eyes boring the windshield and the road beyond.

Innocent to his condition, receiving his distance as resentment for not having his gesture acknowledged, you inched closer to him, palm running up and down the length of his thigh.

His frustration manifested itself in the form of rage, though his words were plain and they disclosed to you enough. “I will have my way with you here, and it won’t matter to me if my driver is here,” your husband barked. “So be mindful of yourself, here and at the restaurant.”

Earlier in the relationship the outburst would have inspired your own ire, and you would have returned his tone, though now, it succeeded in burning a roguish smile across your lips. To know you had such an effect, you had already won.

...

The restaurant was obscurely lit, daylight from the wall of glass elevating some of the ambience which carried an evocation of early dusk, for the patrons seated along the edge.

Your arm snaked through Seto’s, you studied cautiously the young man hailing your husband from his seat along that brighter strip of tables.

“Who exactly have you brought me to see?”

“A prosecutor. The son of the chief prosecutor,” Seto advised leaning in. “Most assume we run in the same circles and it’s less conspicuous than meeting his father. Some overzealous reporters are speculating on my connections to the chief. He’s just a messenger, though I will shoot him regardless if he screws this up.”

“Screws up what?”

“What you’re nagging me to do.”

  
Sliding out a chair for you, Seto slipped into the seat beside you, following. He ignored the hand the young man extended, risen from his seat to greet your husband. Seto was welcome to guard his self-importance, but you accepted a firm shake from the prosecutor when he offered his hand to you.

“Daizō Nobunaga,” he introduced himself.

If you morphed Karou with that Korean actor Dong Ha and created their love child, then swept his glossy tresses back and dropped him into a suit, you imagined you would have a character identical to the man before you. He looked nothing like his father from your memory.

“You upset me Seto,” Daizō said with jovial carelessness, taking a long swallow of his ice water, “you never come out to drink with us guys. Some of us think you’re looking down on us.”

“I am. And I don’t ever recall giving you permission to call me by first name.” Your husband pulled no punches. “There’s nothing amongst you for me to look up to, is there? I hope Ishida is still driving his Ferrari well. And what of Ueda? His vacation villa hasn’t collapsed in on him under all those bribes?” You wondered if you would hear the comprehensive roster of judges and prosecutors in your husband’s payroll.

The young man cleared his throat in a contrived cough, adjusting in his seat.  
  
“I’ll cut to the chase,” Seto said. “I need those traitors put on death row.”

“I received your location. My men should be conducting psychological evaluations of them later this week ahead of trials. What brought on the sudden change of heart?”

“My convictions haven’t changed in the slightest,” Seto spurned. “My fiancée insists.”

The young prosecutor shifted his eyes from your husband to you, before they flickered tentatively back to him. If a teasing one liner was itching his tongue, he did well in swallowing it.

“Leave it to me,” he assured, “I’ll make sure the scum never see the light of day.”

“I’m not leaving anything to you,” Seto scoffed. “Pass on word for word my instructions to your father. You know exactly what I want them convicted of. I want nothing lower than a hundred and twenty years each.”

“Ashikaga was convicted of sixty five,” Daizō hesitated to remind your husband. As it stood, the ruling was deserved, undoubtedly though unusually harsh. Still, in the face of the looming shadow your husband and his corporation cast over the judicial system, you couldn’t think anyone would endure the trouble of an appeal — even his family much less those restless reporters.

“At his age, he’ll drop dead before he sees his grandchild. He’s about ready to croak as it is, I’m fine with the sentencing.”

“Seto,” you chided, reaching your hand for his arm bound tightly against his chest. He shot you a glare though he would say no more.

“I assume we have an understanding?”

“I believe so. You were wise to leave it in the hands of the law,” Daizō said.

“I’ll be waiting,” Seto instead responded, opening the menu laid out before him, “for this whole charade to blow up in your so called competent hands of the law, so I can tend to the mess myself.”

With those words the dye was cast, and a grim tension suspended above the table. The prosecutor wouldn’t correct his words; attempting sway a conviction once set in Seto’s mind was infamously futile.

Following the service of entrees, “You better never dream of a divorce from Mr. Kaiba once you’re married to him,” Daizō said in an attempt to diffuse this dark pall. “As I’m sure you can see, his pocket is deep and everyone is in it.” It was ill foresight. You took a silent sip of your white wine.

“Why would either of us ever consider such a thing?” Seto sneered, assaulting your steak he was dicing with more ferocity than necessary. The sharp overreaction stirred mild surprise. “Don’t project.”

More silence.

...

“Are you happy now? I tended to your ridiculous infatuation for justice.”

Leaned against in the backseat, your palms on his lap; his own infatuations momentarily forgotten, you beamed. “Thank you.”

He snorted, looking out the window.

“What,” you hesitated to ask, “did you do with Atsuna? She may not be carrying a Kaiba but she’s still an expectant mother. I hope you would leave her alone...maybe then we could actually have our own baby...if we leave her alone.”

His head snapped to you at those words. “I won’t touch her,” he affirmed. “And you’re not paying for anything — this is not...karma or whatever it is they teach you at those shrines. It was unfortunate timing. It’s not reflective of you and how you cared for either of those pregnancies.”

“I know.”

“Don’t start crying on me.” Seto ground his jaw at your crestfallen face; his eyes weren’t blind to your lingering palm over your stomach. He called for his driver, instructing for him to pull over just ahead. “Dessert,” Seto explained. “You always ask for dessert when I take you out.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

“You’ll change your mind.”

Perhaps it was the culmination of a lifetime of pacifying a brother much younger than him, or perhaps you were easy to please, but all it took was a bouquet of chocolate dipped strawberries with a side of white chocolate sauce to restore your spirits.

...

The bouquet under his arm as he left the elevator, he followed you to the arrangement of sofas nestled against one corner of his office.

Having witnessed your volatile display earlier teetering on tears, Seto sat by you as you picked at the bouquet.

Dipping the already covered strawberry in the white cream, you fixed him with an intentional gaze of nonchalance, stirring the fruit in the sauce. For a second time that day, Seto found himself unable to place the sharpness in his wife’s eyes. Then an abrupt smile cracked your expression, and you immersed your polished red manicure in all the way to your knuckles.

Taking a bite of the plump strawberry, you stood, the dripping cream staining your black lapel. The words, ‘What are you doing,’ died in his throat as the red sole of your Loubotin met his suit jacket; the heel grinding into his chest over his crisp white shirt, coercing the young president to fall back over the sofa with the threat of impaling him.

You clambered over his surrendered form, as he often did to you. Forcing the half-eaten strawberry between his lips, your fingers coated with thick cream following. “Suck on them,” you purred, your other hand palming his crotch. Once those indicolite — widened an indiscernible degree under fallen chestnut tresses — encountered your eyes, they never left. A large hand wrapping your dainty wrist resting against his chin, he obeyed, licking each of your fingers clean, revealing the red gloss of your finger nails; the strawberry swallowed with a deep bob of his Adam’s apple. The white cream was spilling past his lips. Lifting your hand from his mouth, your tongue lapped at the cream he had missed over your knuckles.

Seto was inexplicably aroused by the thought of submitting to you; the man who refused to relent the reigns to anything, especially intimacy, in that moment discovered an exception, and at once, it was maddening and terrifying. Yet he pushed on. The transient shock faded to a familiar smirk. “Fine,” Seto husked, the word rolling with taunting challenge, “have your way with me...

...in the end,” he added to guard his masculine pride, “it’ll be you moaning under me. That’s how it always ends.”

You tightened your fingers cupping him between his inner thighs, ripping an involuntary grunt. “We’ll see.”

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” Seto warned.

You mirrored his smirk. “Making you come for me with your secretaries behind that unlocked door...oh I think I know.”

“You didn’t lock the door?” your husband hissed, stormy brows gathering. “Have you lost your mind? What if someone walks in?”

“Like you cared for locking doors before, besides, they’ll hear enough from you to know better.” You teased him with an unsuspecting smile, undoing his indigo tie. Without shedding your blazer, you unbuttoned your white shirt, revealing to him your lace bra.

Instinct raised his hands to your hips, a part of him convinced you would toss yourself over the edge of the sofa.

Leaning over him, your hips rutting against his arousal, your lips closed over his jaw, sucking on the white chocolate cream trickling down his cheek. A deep sigh broke in your ear, encouraging you. He had not meant to give in so easily, but you had a way of undoing him so effortlessly.

Hands straying from you your rhythmic hips, they pushed up your black bra, revealing to him your breasts under your open shirt.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to do that,” you panted, raising up to coyly offer him a better view of your flushed breasts. You closed your fingers over your breasts, your forefingers toying with your elongating nipples, just out of his touch; or so you thought. Your head fell back with the pleasure you gave yourself. You had afforded him an opening.

“How are you going to walk down the aisle to me in a white dress after this?” Seto taunted, his voice kissing your every nerve; slender fingers digging into your shoulders as he pulled you into him. His lips naturally found your breasts, tongue wrapping the hardened bud, while his teeth tugged harshly at the soft skin.

“I should have tied your hands,” you moaned, though you allowed it, fingers knotted in his hair.

“I expected you to last longer than this,” Seto teased. “What am I going to do if you’re already like this?”

“Shut up,” you husked, lifting away. Slipping to the ground to kneel beside him, your coordination was your undoing as your fingers fumbled fruitlessly against the buckle of his belt.

“You don’t learn do you?” he grunted, hoisting his weight on his elbows as he undid the buckle with one hand. “Someone would think you’ve never slept with me if they saw this.”

“I thought I asked you to stay quiet,” you snapped — a pitiful attempt you must admit at emulating how he treated you in bed, though it served its purpose. You had ignited in him desperation for you.

He suppressed the smirk which begged to curl his lip. “Seducing your husband in broad daylight,” Seto said, the edge of his tone a titillating razor against your skin. “You’ve grown. I did good with you.” With a languid reach of his arm, his fingers teased your nipples.

“Don’t flatter yourself my love,” you contested, unhooking the closure of his pants, before sliding down the zipper.

Tugging at the waistband of his briefs, amusement glinted in his eyes. “You say you hate oral,” Seto questioned. “This seems more of a punishment to you.”

“That depends,” you cooed, wrapping your palm around his already hardened length, “on what I make of you by the end of this. Besides, you didn’t have me sucking your fingers all this time for nothing, did you?”

Your scarlet lips closed over his tip, and your eyes lifted to catch his head falling back; Adam’s apple racing up and down under his soft skin in anticipation. For once you had him on your own reigns...and you would ruin him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Black suit https://pin.it/zwmxzcnrnh26g4  
> https://pin.it/64etga2d6avjqg]
> 
> Necklace: https://pin.it/wbbkafw3yanhg3
> 
>  
> 
> OH and pictures of the cats:
> 
> https://pin.it/pqppxwp54r532j Suki  
> https://pin.it/yzlukuplpsx4pt Ryu
> 
> Let me know what you think! 
> 
> It’s nice hearing your comments so do let me know :)


	57. Victoria Sponge & Exploding Rain Drops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!! How has everyone been doing? I’m sorry for the long hiatus, I’m back now, hopefully (with 5000 words). First, thanks to Est for asking when and if I was ever going to update this and reading through the draft of the first scene which this was stuck on for months and telling me it didn’t totally suck. That was a huge boost. 
> 
> Also, I may have lied about a few things. Things are resolving here yes, but I thought you all missed the drama/ angst and all that good stuff so enjoy that. Also, Est agreed drama would be a good idea so really it’s all his fault that I went this route. Yeah...let’s always blame Est. 
> 
> Either way, for anyone who actually waited for this, if there’s any of you actually left, hi! And if you haven’t already, give my other fic Redamancy a read when you want a break from all this angst, because Seto and Reader get up to nothing in that fic but heartwarming/ tooth decaying baby fluff. 
> 
> Enjoy!

His high cheekbones were all the more prominent from this angle, though the cerulean blue disappeared under a thicket of silky russet brown. He rasped your name with deep swallow of his Adam’s apple, hands diving for your sleek-tied hair with the first plunge of your wet lips over his hardening shaft.

Just as the first time, your skin prickled in waves all over, spreading from your back suddenly cold, and breaking at your fingers wrapped around his base. You weren’t good at this, it was an unfortunate moment to remember.

The smooth flesh of his head was already slick as his swelling girth pressed against your tongue, the veiny ridges gliding across your lips, the roof of your mouth and the inside of your hollowing cheeks.

You would press your mouth down as far as you could go, which admittedly, with your inexperience and caution was hardly a quarter way down his length. Your lips receded up his arousal, tongue pressing harder against the underside.

His bitten back grunt was encouraging, and from reflex as you sucked him deeper, your eyes flickered to find his. Your eyes immediately faltered away. Your lips circling his thickness you could not persuade to reach much further than the first time.

“Let me see you choke on it,” Seto spoke in a thick whisper. The expectation laid on his features said plainly that if you did not obey, he would strip you of the reins. When had the tables turned so brutally? Distantly, you found yourself craving the usual dominance he exerted in moments of intimacy. “It turns me on that you have no idea what you’re doing,” he said, with one hand, pulling you up by your hair to level with his gaze. Your lips left his arousal with a distinct, sloppy pop which diffused through the silent room.

Except, you realized in that moment, drowning in your husband’s eyes, the room was not entirely silent. From every corner, the quiet whir of the air conditioner filled the room.

Leaning forward, his hand still knotted against the base of your hair, he kissed your lips.

“Let me just have my way with you,” Seto said with a smug curl of his lip. “I promise you’ll enjoy it.” The guttural scrape of his tone raising every fine hair to attention over your neck and back would not break your composure, nor the thrilling frisson which devastated your body.

No, instead you retaliated. “Afraid of moaning for me my love?” The arch of your taunting eyebrow was intriguing to Seto, so he would entertain your stubbornness for a few more minutes.

The second your lips closed over his cock, you began with a renewed passion — and vengeance, though what was love without some thrill of friction — sucking greedily the ridge of his ruddy head. You moaned into it, eyes closing as you grew desperate to pleasure him.

He was achingly hard, and you relished the sensation of his heavy veined shaft slipping against your lips. It was a sloppy affair, your palm and your lips coated in a slick mixture of his pre-cum and your saliva as you pumped his length.

You could hear the groans welling in his throat, though always to be stopped; he wouldn’t give you the satisfaction to hold over him.

You sighed his name again, your mouth still closed over his cock.

He shuddered. “Fuck,” a reluctant curse treated you.

You slipped off your blazer and shirt. As you stripped yourself of your lace bra for him, you allowed your tongue to flick against his tip. You glanced up to his blue eyes before dipping it into his slit. Your eyes still arresting his, you bobbed your lips deeper, his head smothering against the roof of your mouth, centimetres from the back of your throat.

Pulling away, with a firm press, you ran your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, all the while, boring deep blue eyes with your own. They were whetted blades, and against you they were burning black; embers and charcoal. Hands stroking him with a pressure you had learned he enjoyed, you lowered your mouth to his hilt, taking in the soft skin in between your lips, sucking and teasing them with a playful nip of your teeth.

A gratifying convulsion pulsed through him; his resolve to not express the pleasure you gave weakening as a strained grunt ripped from his throat. His hands tightened in your hair, strands pulled and undone from the ponytail.

You took his bulge whole in your mouth. You met him again with doe eyes. Leaving him for a moment, “Do you like that?” you asked. Your tone was the opposite of what you had imagined; your usual subservience he enjoyed still very much lingering.

He groaned, a smirk forming between his pained expression. “You really are a slut.”

You began kissing him in that soft place, licking and sucking your way back to his pulsing length, replacing your hand.

As your mouth sheathed his impressive thickness once again in wet heat, you applied yourself to pumping him rigorously. You ventured further with each stroke, dancing dangerously close to choking against him. It was a thrill, your blood rushing to your own arousal, swelling your lips and triggering a burning along your hips.

His throaty grunts which manifested above you now in open air, in spite of himself were indescribably erotic. You could come undone to the mere sound of them. In their mix you heard your name, hot and sloppy.

His cock throbbed once against your inner cheeks, prominent veins protruding in anticipation of release; this should have been your first clue. Instead, you forced your stiffening jaw and reddened lips darkened by his pre-cum deeper than your inhibitions had thus far allowed.

You could feel his plump head push against the entrance to your throat, and you sucked him into you, defiantly deeper. Against his swelling girth filling all of you, your reflexes triggered. The air was stripped from your lungs as you dissolved into a mess of choking against him. You would not realize the effect of your present ministrations on your husband.

You heard him curse some series of words which was incoherent to you. Beyond you, his head fell back in euphoria, coming into you.

His release worsened your suffocation which as he watched over you grew to be unbelievably titillating. His fingers in your hair threatened to uproot a handful of your tresses as his orgasm peaked.

The sticky heat exploding to fill your mouth dribbled from the corners of your lips, sloshing against your cheeks. The taste was as sour as you’d remembered, and as you managed to pull away from him, coughing, and inevitably swallowing his seed, a low, tired laugh reverberated form your husband.

It would take a few moments longer to find some semblance of composure; his seed you were convinced coating your windpipe.

As you looked up at him, his expression was not the one you had worked so hard for, he was triumphant, and aggravatingly so.

“You’re choking on my cum,” Seto husked, lips teasing your ear as he bent down. “Who do you think came out on top? Hmm?” His fingers reached to wipe gently at your chin of his seed, dripping and trailing down your naked chest.

…

You arrived at the mansion early that evening, to be informed by one of the many young butlers that Seto was yet to. Understandable, it was hardly past five. You did not expect him home for another few hours still.

Walking into the kitchen you set down a grocery bag of baking ingredients — you were sure the mansion pantry had but did not want to scavenge for in its many, many confusing compartments.

The looks on the cooks caught off guard were almost comical, and not, refreshingly, the least bit defiant. You had brought yourself to the kitchen prepared for a confrontation, mastering your resolve all the while as you traipsed the passageways that this was your home, your kitchen, and more than anyone else, had the right to be there.

It was all for naught, the newly hired chefs and maids were trembling at the sight of you. It occurred to you that this time around, you were senior in your residence of the mansion. It was not a detail of significance in inspiring respect but it certainly did not hurt.

The harrowing feeling slowly eating away that you weren’t good enough, continued to fester somewhere deep though try as you may, you could not expose its roots.

“Would you like some help Mrs. Kaiba?” One young cook treaded with caution. She appeared older than you, dishevelled likely from a whole day of toiling under the heat of the kitchen.

“No, I’m fine,” you said, typing an apron around your waist. You stepped out of your stilettos, not bothering to seek out a pair of house slippers. You should have found one at the front door, but you had come through the garage.

“We haven’t met,” you addressed the kitchen at large. You found a dozen pairs of eyes tuning their focus on you. “My name isn’t Mrs. Kaiba, or madam. Quite frankly, it makes me feel fifty. You all know my name, but for the sake of being comfortable around each other, call me Miss. Young madam for those of you who are sticklers for the rules” With a discerning eye you appraised the kitchen staff and servants. “..And let’s all please try to get along.”

In return, they offered you deep bows of their head.

“Is anyone in the middle of something life-threateningly urgent?” you asked once the atmosphere had dissolved again into a low bustle of pots, pans and whispered words.

“No, no of course not,” an older gent — a chef — answered on the behalf of the majority. “We were just preparing dinner for you and Mr. Kaiba.”

“I will be making dinner tonight for my husband. You may all leave for the night.”

“I’d more than happy to help,” the chef pressed on.

“I’m fine.” You smiled. “Have an early evening for once. Cooking for Seto isn’t something I plan to do every night.”

“It might be a bit intimidating navigating this large kitchen.” He laughed nervously at your impassive reception of his words. “Uhh...it was — I mean, I’m still getting used to it myself.”

“And you’ve been employed with us how long?”

“Several weeks, young madam.”

“And I’ve been married for months now. I’ve catered for a few hundred people my husband was entertaining and survived so when I ask you to leave, do it without making me repeat myself. You’ll find my temperament is no better than my husband’s. In fact some of you may think he’s kind.” You had begun unpacking the grocery bag. “The next person to make me repeat myself will have their resignation handed to them. No one I don’t like remains very long in this house. Ever wonder how your positions became available?”

You flashed them an innocent smile as you told them to get out.

You were tired, so very tired.

As the kitchen emptied, you anchored your arms apart on the counter, leaning in, wondering where that aggression had poured out from. It was a necessary boundary to draw, you understood, and refusing outright to fraternize with the help, you would be thankful for in the future. However, there were nicer means to achieve this.

What was this nagging feeling of being inadequate?

…

You had heard Seto was settled into his study straight after returning home. He had inquired after you, you were advised, though he did not seek you out. You would say it didn’t bother you, but that would be a lie.

Peeking into his study, tray in hand, whatever was flashing across his screen, he appeared heavily invested in. If he brooded any harder, or leaned any closer to the screen, you thought he might be pulled right in by the chrome blue glow.

“I brought us dinner,” you told him, ambling in.

As his eyes separated with discernible reluctance from the monitor, they narrowed against your — or rather your borrowed — powder blue sweater. It poured loosely like a dress over the silver, pleated metallic skirt underneath. You had been shooting for endearing, and hoped had not accidentally dressed yourself too homely. It was odd, vying for Seto’s attention. The most frightening was that for the greater part, it had been unconsciously done.

“You’re wearing my clothes again.”

“I am.”

“It suits you better than it did me.” He removed himself from his desk, crossing the study to sit across from where you were arranging the dinner plates on the coffee table. “The colour,” he elaborated.

You allowed a small smile. “Are you calling me pretty?”

“If that makes you happy.”

“So that’s a no then.”

“I think pretty is a disservice,” Seto muttered, picking up a fork and appraising the plate of mushroom fettuccini spiralled before him, “but if that makes you happy...”

He began to eat. There were no more words to interrupt the cling of his fork against the porcelain, and stirring your noodles around, you debated if it was a comfortable silent. Perhaps it was your imagination the feeling that there was something ominous on the tip of his tongue.

He made a passing remark on your cooking, something to the effect of it not surprising him that it had been flavourful. Still, he wasn’t all there.

As you served him the Victoria sponge you had baked for dessert, you tried your hand again at conversation, a futile attempt, but you had known that. “I used to really like this kind of sponge growing up. I would tell you it’s my mother’s recipe, but...well I don’t have anything left of her. I like to think about what kind of person she was though, you know?”

His response was to silently pick up the silver spoon, and carve away at the slice you had placed in front of him.

“Is it good?” you asked him.

“It is.”

He wasn’t a conversationalist unless he wanted to be, and you knew he grew uneasy where each other’s childhoods were concerned, but tonight he was a few words short. If you were pretty, or more than pretty, why would he not look at you?

“A friend — an actress, a senior of mine is having a baby shower,” you found yourself saying. “I suppose you don’t want to come as my date?”

“No.”

“I thought so. You know the summer expo is in a couple of weeks. It will be my first time going. I know it’s kind of your thing. Every year, all I see is headlines of you and your company and nothing of the other twelve hundred something companies participating over the weekend. It’s amazing really... It doesn’t matter where in the world I am, it’s always Kaiba —”

He interrupted there, severely stressing your name.  
  
“If I wasn’t very good at — this afternoon, I’m sorry.”

“What?”

Your fingers clawed at your skirt on your lap.

“We need to talk,” Seto said, setting down his empty dessert plate. He didn’t beg for clarity on your bizarre outburst. You said nothing, asking for what he intended to talk about would be redundant. “I didn’t want to discuss this while you were struggling without your memories. It would have been more than you possessed the capacity to handle. But I assume from how you are — ”

“You know when I didn’t have my memory you used to talk so much to me. Now you just, you don’t even come tell me that you came home.”

Seto pinched the bridge of his nose, and stood wordlessly. Stalking to his desk, he retrieve his tablet, and returned to hold it out to you. You followed his arm up to find a tense expression troubling his features.

“Take it,” Seto grunted, assuming his previous seat across the coffee table. Looking down at your filmy reflection on the unlit tablet, you waited for an explanation. “We’ve been careless. Or perhaps I was careless with you.” You met his blue eyes, he was looking directly at you. “You can’t keep getting pregnant every time I have sex with you. Besides, I don’t think you could handle another miscarriage. As it is, you’re too traumatized to consider children, and we aren’t in a position to not.”

“Then maybe you should start learning to use a condom,” you retorted, words burning with defiance.

“Yes,” he snarled, “if you tell me when you stop using birth control on a whim, but you don’t take the time to tell me about it.” From the pocket of his slacks he pulled out a flat cardboard box, and tossed it across the table to you. “I had a new prescription written up for you. This shouldn’t aggravate your acne.”

“How thoughtful,” you said spitefully, reaching for the pills and appraising it with a gaze scorning the mere sight of it.

“To answer your earlier accusation,” he continued, appointing pointed ignorance to receive your remark, “I was sorting through potential nutritionists and gynaecologists for you to consult with.”

“And have you thought to ask me how I feel about this?”

“You’re acting like a child. I’m doing what’s best for you,” Seto insisted. “On that tablet there’s a list of health care professionals, gynaecologists, nutritionists, physical trainers...They’re the best the field has to offer and I compiled who I thought would be suitable for us. If you think you need a psychological therapist — ”

“What we need is a marriage counsellor!” you exploded, shattering his tablet against the edge of the coffee table and standing. It was at moments like these, where he would not even flinch at your reaction, looking inhumanely serene that you grew convinced he had evolved beyond all human emotion. “Take the birth control and be a good girl. That’s what you want isn’t it? Open my legs when you ask. And then give you children when _you_ think I’m ready? Well fuck you Seto, fuck you and fuck this whole relationship.”

“What the hell has gotten into you?” Seto snapped in response. “You said you wanted to give me children, and I promised you I would do everything in my power to make certain than when the time comes you would conceive again. A baby isn’t going to fall out of the sky. You’re going to have to commit to this _now_.”

“I just had a miscarriage,” you said, voice barely manifesting. Your voice sounded heavily of tears, an empty screeching carrying between words. Your palm fell against your stomach. “Our baby used to be here...and I think about him or her everyday Seto. I think about what could have been — I think about what they would have looked like if I had been more careful, if I had been good to you.” Tears were now streaming unforgivingly over your flushing cheeks. “...And I feel empty, like a part of me is missing, every single day. Do you know what that feels like? I killed our baby Seto. That’s twice now. It’s not that I can’t carry a pregnancy to term, I’m realizing now that I don’t deserve to be a mother. Even though...I _really want to be!_ ” You collapsed back against the sofa cushions, face in your hands. “...But maybe wanting to make you a father isn’t a fair reason, and — and maybe I won’t be a good mother...

“I try so hard — I try so hard to be good to you...”

“You’re a good woman,” his voice finally penetrated your incoherent sobbing. “You’ll make a fine mother, and — ”

“ _Oh don’t patronize me_ ,” you replied, smiling contemptuously. “You don’t think that. I can’t give you a decent blowjob and I’m the idiot for thinking cooking one day a month for you will fix any of that. At least have the decency to tell me I’m rubbish at it instead of — instead of all of this!”

“Is that what all of this is about?” Seto asked, sighing your name as if you were a nuisance. He massaged his temples, closing his eyes for a moment. “I spent my whole day on you. Ever since you left my office, I’ve been working on compiling that list you just tossed like it was garbage. You kept thinking about children the whole time you were trapped in that VR and forgive me for mistaking those sentiments for sincerity.”

“You think my feelings about giving you children is insincere?” It was a haunting tone, somber, hollow and defeated. He didn’t deserve this, your better judgement campaigned but you were deaf to its reasonings. “You’re just as bad as everyone says you are Seto. You’re cold...twisted and just thorny all over.”

“You don’t mean that.” He was confident. “You’re being childish and you’re rebelling because I didn’t give you overwhelming praise on your oral skills.”

You scoffed. It was worse when he was just a little left of the mark. “Don’t look for me,” you abruptly declared, stumbling to your feet in a fury and flouncing out of his study.

In your wake, your husband sat there, nonplussed. The gravity of your request sunk in a moment too late, and contemplative blue eyes reflecting on your phone screen, it dawned upon the young chairman that he couldn’t track you.

It began to pour in sheets.

…

Yuki had not been expecting anyone, especially this late on a storming night. So handing her infant to one of the many maids, she answered the sharp rapping on her front door with apprehension.

The sight of you in house slippers, hair slightly disheveled, with an unsettled quality to your face was far from her first guess, or even her fourth or fifth.

She spoke your name with a certain reverence. “Is everything alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Masterful lies were kind of your thing. Seto never bought them, but it worked well enough on most others. “I was running an errand upstairs in my suite and I just wanted to drop by.”

“Of course — of course...uh...”

“Is it a little too late to come in?” you asked.

“No!” she said, almost jolting straight at the query you had thought gentle. “No, please, come in.”

As she let you in, stepping away from the door, you looked down at your empty hands. “I hope it’s okay that I didn’t bring anything. How thoughtless of me I — ”

“Oh not at all,” she said, waving you off. Closing the door she fell behind you as you crossed through the entrance hall. “I’m just grateful for all of this — this place, my tuition and textbooks. The nannies and maid staff too. I’ve never had this much ever in my life.”

“I don’t pay for this, my husband does,” you said.

“Still,” she said, “he would never have if it wasn’t for you. I should have thanked you earlier for this, but you really didn’t need to send me all the hampers.”

“What hampers?” you asked, arriving in her living room, possessing no knowledge of what she was referring to.

You received the bowing maids with a nod of your head.  


“The hampers!” Yuki repeated as you turned to face her. “With everything from diapers to newborn and infant clothes. That man called Isono gave it to me when he brought over the crew to set up the crib in the master bedroom. He said you asked him to give it to me. You already give me an allowance three times a normal wage, it was really thoughtful but you really didn’t need to.”

“Huh...”

“It wasn’t you?”

“Seto,” you murmured, mostly to yourself. He was not a person you were presently disposed to discussing.

“You’re very lucky,” she said inviting you to sit, as she sat on the sofa to the left of you chair. You held your eyes on the Domino skyline glittering behind the wall of glass across the room. Between your distant eyes and her awkward posture, a long silence stretched. “Would you like something to drink?” she asked.

“No. Thank you.”

She flashed a clumsy smile. “...You know the boyfriend that wanted nothing to do with me or the baby suddenly showed up last week after hearing about the move.”

“Oh? Did you invite him in?”

“I wouldn’t even let my own family in, what right does he have to be here? He was upset that I registered our daughter under my last name. But the way he left me, if it weren’t for you and Mr. Kaiba, I’d be on the streets with her, so — ”

“Do you mind if I see the baby?” you asked, cutting her off. Perhaps ultimately, this was why your aimless wandering had led you here.

“...Sure.” It was obvious in her expression that she had not been expecting that, and you searched in earnest for a trace of reluctance. You found nothing, and she stood to relieve the maid of the flailing infant.

As she handed you the happy baby, a bubbly cackle burbling from her lips, your eyes misted, and as if from heavy clouds on an overcast evening, the tears came. A heaviness you couldn’t breathe out burgeoned in your chest at the sight of her, it spread...and bled all over.

She didn’t have Seto’s blue eyes, or your laugh, but that should not have birthed any expectations for it to cut any shallower. She wasn’t yours, and perhaps that’s why it hurt so much more. Bundling the infant against the warmth of your husband’s sweater, it all poured loose. It must have confused the baby a great deal, and her mother a great deal more.

You cried, and cried, but where would the heaviness go? It took root in that earlier emptiness of which you spoke, and it devastated you.

The maid servants silently exited the room, the smothering infant dispassionate, and her bewildered mother ran her palm smoothly over your back in repeating circles. Uncertain of your trials, and even more so you were sure, uninterested to ask, for the risk of it opening a can worms more repulsive. No one wanted to be at the pit of a hole they could not clamber out of, especially when it was not their hole.

Your cynicism was a disservice to Yuki however, who deserved a great deal more credit, for kneeling beside you, she draped a warm towel over your hunched shoulders. You caught the tail end of an explanation of how she had asked one of the maids to warm it in the dryer for you.

She stayed there, knelt by your feet, stroking your back soothingly.

When she asked after what had inspired your tears, yours was a terse response, “Nothing.” Could she do anything at all to alleviate your grief, she still asked. Again, “Nothing.”

Yuki was hesitating to let you leave. She asked you if Seto knew where you were. He was away on a business trip, you said. In hindsight it one of your more regrettable fibs, though in your present state of distress, it was, if nothing else a coherent response.

When you refused her offer to keep you company in your penthouse for the night, she offered you an umbrella. You wouldn’t need one you assured her, the drive from the underground garage of the building to the mansion’s wouldn’t expose you to the heavy pelt of the rain.

…

Except when the elevator reached the ground floor you stepped out. You could already feel the damp air drifting in. Slipping out under the starless night into the summer storm, you let your face fall up to the exploding raindrops.

Your house slippers drenched, and an unsavoury sogginess squelched under your bare feet. You contemplated walking out of them, but the rough ground littered occasionally with shattered glass persuaded you to endure hearing the wet noises. The puddles flooded your slippers and submerged you to your ankles, and the mud of the nearby playground carved in generous dollops in between your bare feet and soles.

The soaked sweater was heavier on your shoulders falling forward, and it hung further down, over the metallic skirt the raindrops rolled sleekly off of.

You had no direction, no phone, no umbrella, and no thoughts to find concern in your current situation. Where was home? The definitive answer had grown blurry. In your lost and found memory, the outline of Seto, who he was and who he wasn’t had blotted. It occurred to you there were gaps in your memory you couldn’t account for. You couldn’t remember what you had been wearing when Seto had proposed to you under the cherry blossoms, and when you summoned the memory hours ago, it had taken a moment to assemble in your mind the chronological order of events — that you had married him legally prior to this excursion.

And yet most of all, you could not remember what had upset you so profoundly that you had felt compelled to flee from all that you had called home. Was that the elusive answer to your previous question?

The rain kept falling as if the earth was beckoning the drops to flood the grassy playground, and on a wet swing you collapsed, the rusted chains screeching at the burden of you. It swung once back and forth, before your heels anchored into the mud.

Behind you the creaking wrought iron half-gate opened and closed, and before the heavy steps trudging the patches of wet sludge between the grass could call your attention away from the far away place your mind had wandered off to, they called for you.

“By now one would think you would have learned the consequences of running away from home in the middle of the night. Do you not know what happens to little girls who run away from home to places like this?”

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! Also please leave here all the told you so-s to reader for wandering off. 
> 
> Love,
> 
> Wanderlust x
> 
>  
> 
> Reader’s outfit: https://pin.it/fduzfnxppzbpqv (Except imagine a more Seto-esque sweater.)


	58. On Your Knees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter and I did cut it in half because of how long it would otherwise get. So some things I have said you should expect in this chapter may have been carried over to the next!
> 
> Enjoy!

 

“I didn’t expect to get very far before you found me,” you replied, eyes honed against the distance. “And oh look, here you are.”

 

Suddenly the rain stopped, or rather, it couldn’t touch you anymore. You supposed this was true for most things when he was around. And he almost convinced you that he could stop the rain from falling, but in the world around you it continued to fall, a grey storm of disoriented chaos.

 

“What’s the point of carrying around an umbrella if you’re going to be soaking wet?” you asked him, still refusing to answer to darkened blue eyes.

 

“I brought it for you.” There was silence. The rain continued to roar, ravaging the playground in sheets, nailing into the grass with a vengeance. He continued to hold it over you.

 

“Seto I’m cold,” you confessed.

 

“Then you shouldn’t have run away from home like a little child,” Seto replied. “Get up. I’m taking you home.” He was standing in front of you now, still in his black jeans and sweater. You could see now, at the end of his extended arm, his umbrella too was black, and it was wide. It could easily shield you both but he chose to protect only you from the rain’s assault.

 

“I don’t think I’m coming.”

 

“Child!” he roared above the rain, “you’re going to give us both pneumonia. This isn’t one of your melodramas, and you’re certainly not going to get an award by me for your stubbornness.”

 

“Then go home.”

 

“I’m trying to,” he said between gritted teeth.

 

“...Or hold the umbrella above your own head.”

 

The haunting melancholy in your gaze unsettled him. So he spoke your name, as if to summon you to reality.

 

“Just go.”

 

He sighed, and for the briefest of moments, as he stepped away, you believed you had persuaded him to abandon his attempts. It was devastating, the thought that he would even consider walking away. You despised the paradox of your own convictions.

 

Instead he planted himself on the neighbouring swing, long legs stretched awkwardly over the muddy moat that had formed beneath the swing set, against the grass. The black umbrella you could see better now, an embossed KC embellished in smooth silver on one panel. 

 

“Fine,” he snarled, closing the umbrella, thrusting it into the sludge. “Sit there. Get sick for all I care.”

 

“You’ll have to deal with it when I get sick,” you told him in a soft voice.

 

“I’m dealing with it now. If you pass out from hypothermia, it’ll be easier to carry you back.”

 

“You don’t mean that. You’re just saying mean things to intentionally hurt me,” you countered.

 

“...What,” Seto asked, “do you want from me? What did I do that was so wrong?”

 

“Would you be happier,” you asked, “without me? I mean wouldn’t you be, if I went far away? Somewhere you couldn’t see me. You wouldn’t need to bother yourself taking care of me, wasting your time making me a priority...”

 

His head snapped at the words you were sure the rain had stolen under its reign. An enraged snarl ripped from him throat. “What?” It wasn’t lost to the rain like your words, in fact it seemed to momentarily pause all other sound and distractions.

 

“You know you deserve better Seto. I don’t think I can be a good wife to you, and not for a lack of trying — ”

 

“That’s it,” Seto growled. “The rainwater is seeping into your brain. We’re leaving. Now.”

 

“No,” you insisted, “we’re not. You don’t respect me. You take me for granted.” As he made to oppose, your words climbed to some piercing pitch, feverish, and demanding to be heard. Your fingers closed tightly around the metal chains suspending the swing. “I’m not your child! And I’m not stupid. I’m trying so hard! Why do you keep asking me for things I’m not ready for? Why? Why? WHY!?”

 

The world grew noiseless, and the trees bending under the storm’s onslaught held their breath. Your husband stood in front of you now, the swing he had occupied swaying idly.

 

The rain heavy on your back, you hunched under its will. “It may be difficult now but I think at least you’ll be happier. What was it like before you were my husband?”

 

“I don’t care to remember,” Seto said. “There is no happiness for me without you. In fact I couldn’t think of anything worse. Now I don’t know what I’ve done be so disappointing as a husband, or give you a marriage you can’t wait to get out of, but I will do anything to take you back home with me.”

 

“Anything?”

 

“Anything.”

 

In all your self-inflicted bitterness, you couldn’t think of a punishment deserving. Perhaps because he had done nothing warranting your present overreaction, and you were soberly conscious of this. You loathed yourself for this clarity as you doled out your next words. “Apologize. Get on your knees and tell me you’re sorry.”

 

“If that’s what you want me to do.” Seto was disconcertingly solemn.

 

You could only scoff. “You’re too full of yourself.”

 

“I am. With good reason. But you’re always the exception.” And with those words he knelt, one knee after the other, sinewy limbs sunk into thick sludge without second thought. The man who always commanded a crushing presence you found at your feet. He seemed so fragile now.

 

“Seto get up.”

 

A pyrrhic victory; you couldn’t bear the site. He deserved better.

 

“Waiting for you to wake up, and again waiting for you to remember me,” he said, “I promised myself I would do anything you asked; get on my knees if you asked, give you anything you wanted.”

 

What would you even say? It all seemed so silly now.

 

“...If I had more experience, if you had married me after I’d been with other men, I’d be better at it, wouldn’t I?”

 

“The thought of my wife with another man sickens me,” Seto was quick to retort, repulsed. “Watching you act sickens me.”

 

“I wouldn’t have been your wife then.”

 

“Stop. I wanted you as you were.

 

“I will admit,” he said after a long stretch of silence under the rainstorm, “that I wasn’t particularly inclined to the reversal of roles earlier in my office. If that is something you are expecting me to experiment with you, I’ll oblige, but it is not a dynamic I’m...comfortable with.”

 

“I...like that you guide me through it in the bedroom,” you confessed in a quiet voice.

 

“That’s not to say you didn’t do well.”

 

“You don’t need to — ”

 

“It does me no favours to lie to you about that when I’m on the receiving end,” Seto said. “You exceeded my expectations, I assumed that had gone without saying but more than my past affairs you — ” He cleared his throat, struggling to find a civil connection of words to finish his sentence. At a loss, he elected for silence.

 

“Please get up. I don’t want to see you like this. I just wanted to be good to you, I’m so sorry.”

 

“Then sitting out in the rain risking both of our health is hardly the answer.” His words were never subtle, and always found you as if a sobering slap in the face.

 

“Do you really think we could...make a baby together?”

 

“This is hardly the appropriate place or time to discuss starting a family but I wouldn’t have invested all that I did if I didn’t.”

 

Seto could see the tears before they glossed your eyes. Leaning forward on one knee, his one hand gripped the metal chain over your smaller hand, and tilting his face under yours pressed a firm kiss against your lips.

 

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, parting. “And I’m nothing if not committed to things I need in my life. Now, how much longer are you planning to sit here looking like your hairballs after a bath?”

 

“I’m sorry for being a terrible wife,” you sobbed, allowing yourself to fall into him.

 

“I don’t know what gave you that impression,” Seto replied, his arms slipping around you. “Now I’m going to take you home, and I trust you won’t cry bloody murder.”

 

“I love you,” you murmured into his ear as he lifted you. “You’re such a good husband.”

 

“And you give me a toothache.”

 

…

 

The guest, if it had been long enough since he had moved out for him to be titled as such, sat splayed over the bottom steps of the grand stairwell of the entrance hall, shuffling a deck of cards. He was an unexpected sight midweek, though never an unwelcome one, and he seemed as much bewildered by the sight of you and your husband, wrapped into each other as you entered, as you were of him.

 

“What the hell do you two get up to when I’m not around?” Mokuba asked, pocketing his cards. “Were you — Seto did you roll around in mud?”

 

You couldn’t hold the laughter which erupted past swallowed lips at the query, though the tingle of guilt was ever present.

 

“And you,” his merciless onslaught continued, “did the elderly home have a disco night. What are you wearing?”

 

Dropping the umbrella into the holder, Seto scowled. “That’s mine Mokuba. You bought that for me last year.”

 

“I must have had terrible taste last year. She looks like a funky grandmother. Well I mean, it’s a look.”

 

Peeling off your mud soaked socks and slippers, it was your turn to grow sour — burn every shade of indignant — whichever. “What are you doing here Mokuba?”

 

“Ooh— am I getting the in-law treatment?”

 

“Answer the question,” Seto snapped, handing his Italian leather boots to the awaiting butler, their polish a distant memory.

 

Throwing his arms dramatically in the air he answered, “I thought you two would want to see your favourite brother since you missed me.”

 

“I only have one brother, and she has none,” Seto said, nearly groaning from the mismatched and rather dramatic happiness Mokuba was handing out in large, unsolicited doses.

 

“I actually have like two step-brothers,” you reluctantly corrected as a maid sponged your feet with a wet towel.

 

“ _Mokuba_.”

 

The younger knew better than to cross that tone. “I have someone I want you two to meet,” he said. His next words were delivered with hesitation, agitation almost. “A girl.”

 

“Wouldn’t be your first. Not that you’ve ever formally introduced any at home.”

 

A fresh pair of slippers on your feet, you crossed the front hall to your brother-in-law. “It must be pretty serious,” you said, beaming. “What’s her name?”

 

“It’s a surprise,” he returned with an impish gleam in his eye. “You’ll really like her.”

 

…

 

You sat in a warm bath, nestled against Seto’s chest. For a very long time now, there had been an unbearable silence. The rain continued to pour in devastating waves over the garden beyond. Occasionally you would feel his lips move against your temple.

 

“Is it the miscarriages?” your husband eventually asked. “Are you afraid we’d have a third? Or are you afraid of the thought of giving birth?”

 

Straight to the point; you couldn’t be sure if you admired that about him.

 

“Both. Honestly.”

 

His arms around you tightened, and his lips against your temple pressed deeper. “I’ll be beside you through all of it. I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

 

“I don’t want to try and find out it won’t work, and that ultimately, we won’t work,” you confessed in the smallest whisper.

 

“Something I always tell Mokuba,” Seto told you, “is if at first you don’t succeed, you try again. And at the end of the day, I was adopted.”

 

“I want to give you at least one of your own children. Pretty blue eyes, and... well a mini you.”

 

Endeared, a corner of his lip curled as he watched over you. “A mini me, huh?”

 

You hummed. “A daughter, if it can be helped. You would do so well as a father.”

 

“I told you when we exchanged wedding bands that if you wanted something you should tell me instead of wasting your time wishing on a dead star. Those lists of physicians earlier was me realistically pursuing what you tell me you want. It won’t be easy. You know that. Your health is in poor condition and you need help. I want us to have children, I want yours, but children don’t fall from the sky by magical storks. Like everything else in life, they’re earned.”

 

“How noble.”

 

“Pragmatic,” Seto corrected. “I’m adding pragmatism to your fairytales.”

 

You laid against his chest, lost in deep contemplate. Despite his stoic silence and affinity for unnecessary dramatics, he always made sense. He was never without a solution, so you would trust him, and you would break the one principle you believed you never would; follow him as if he was your faith. “I’ll do everything you tell me to do, whatever it takes to have your baby.”

 

“That’s my girl,” Seto commended, giving you a suspiciously gently kisson your crown.

 

The rest of the night dissolved into an unexpectedly erotic affair and even as he dried your hair before the vanity in the walk-in closet, you remained in a stunned trance, recovering from what he had called his own interpretation of an apology to you.

 

…

 

Early morning, you woke up wrapped in a damp chest. His skin was feverish to the touch. A groan slipped his lips as he moved you off of him, a maneuver he would have executed without the slightest difficulty on any other day. A similar expression of pain left him as he stepped off the bed.

 

Yet he dismissed your concerns and ignored your calls to check his temperature.

 

You heard the shower run, and in your sleepy haze, burrowed into the warmth Seto had left under the sheets, eyes growing heavier under the enticement of even five more minutes of sleep.

 

Next, you jolted awake to the collapse of something heavy against the bathroom tiles. The immediate danger never registered in your consciousness even as you leapt off the bed to inspect the crash.

 

You found Seto unconscious against the cold tiles, his skin colder than the freezing marble. You suspected his shower to be the culprit of his drastic drop in body temperature.

 

Unresponsive to your touch, your gentle calls which quickly escalated to violent shaking and pleas for him to open his eyes, you didn’t recognize your voice as you screamed for someone — anyone — beyond your bedroom doors for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think! :)


	59. You Are My Star

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised no angst so here’s tooth decaying fluff — no Really, it was difficult for me to proof read — with a biting kick of drama. 
> 
> Also yes, that title is me shamelessly promoting Gfriend’s new album. Though that song really does fit the vibe of this chapter, at least how she feels for him. And while we’re at it, also go listen to Dreamcatcher’s new album You and I. I’ve really been blessed this summer, again. I’ve been listened to nothing else. These 7+6 girls saved Kpop since the 2nd generation. Really. I could talk forever on this honestly. 
> 
> Also, archive is being glitchy where I can’t edit it to have italics either through HTML or rich text so ignore the missing/ unneeded italics in this chapter until I have a laptop to fix it with. And the spacing got really weird ignore that too please!
> 
> Enjoy the 7466 words of fluff!

There was a low drizzle sweeping the garden. You almost wondered if they heard you over the creaking oaks, twisting in the garden. You had no mind to pull a dressing gown over him; the towel he had tied against his waist was half damp on the cold tile.

 

“Call an ambulance!” you yelled at the butler as he came in, followed by an entourage of maids. At first he just stood there, as if he was deaf, or you were mad. Of course, if your words had produced themselves in open air with even a lick of sense was dubious. “Are you waiting for an invitation? Call a fucking ambulance!”

 

These were your first words exchanged with this butler. You did not pay attention to every expression which passed over the servants but as a consensus, they were horrified, both, you were certain by Seto’s sudden state of vulnerability and your subsequent role reversal from demure and reserved to hysterical.

 

Livid; angry at yourself, this anger seeped into every crack and inefficiency. It sparked when the family’s physician and medical team were delayed by the impending rain storm, and it flared when a maid spent a fraction of a second longer than you found acceptable receiving your demands. Somewhere within this disarray, pouring over Seto now laid on your side of the bed, you grew a particular disgust for the gathered skirts the maids wore. It twirled this way and that, taking forever for one of them to make one full rotation. 

 

“My god,” you snarled at the returning maid as she set down a bowl of hot water and face towel, “hurry up, will you? Do you have weights sewn into the hems of your skirts?” You snatched at the towel she was draping over the edge. “You’re not performing in a ballet!”

 

She winced. The entire household held their breath.

 

…

 

Your acknowledgment of the physician and his staff was hardly a welcome and more a suppression of distress; a reluctant nod of your head. Expression severe, features gaunt, your lips drawn into a thin line, your own skin felt like sandpaper under dried tears.

 

“I...understand you’re concerned for Mr. Kaiba,” the physician said, something Ishiguro; Dr. Ishiguro. “But dear, you do need to let go of his hand for me to examine him.”

 

You immediately vacated your seat, slipping away to the other end of the bed to sit against the edge, a light hand massaging Seto’s leg over the sheets. The blood returning to your knuckles, you watched, all at once intently and absently as the physician filled your seat, placing his stethoscope against Seto’s chest falling softly, over and over.

 

“It’s nothing severe. With proper rest and treatment, he should make a full recovery,” the physician assured, likely observing your expression which flittered between something threatening tears and grave, unable to settle.

 

There had nested a false belief somewhere in your nervousness that the slightest of your movement would injure Seto somehow, so you found yourself stiffened into a sluggish slouch, afraid to break that mould.

 

“That being said,” the physician continued, “it could escalate into pneumonia. And there is also the matter of him having suffered trauma to the head. Has he complained of any chest pain or shortness of breath?”

 

“No— we just — he was fine and then he collapsed. I told him he had a fever this morning and he just — but he wouldn’t listen he had a shower I think and I — I don’t know what I — ” tears impeded words already slurred as they barely escaped quivering lips “—He won’t die...will he?”

 

The doctor gave a hearty laugh. It was ill received; you didn’t see the humour, and he seemed to reflect onhis response.

 

“He’s my only family,” you said, stern; all of a sudden hostile. Now, tears could not soften the whetted edge of your voice. “And if something happens to him, I will hold you directly responsible.”

 

It was easy to see you as a child, paralyzed without your husband’s supervision; it was easy to forget that you had existed before you met him; that women were more than their relationship to their men.

 

“Are my words difficult to follow?” you asked him.

 

The tone of the room changed perceptibly; the physician’s address of you shifting to one of reverence and caution.

 

“Uh no, Mrs. Kaiba. I understand you perfectly. I will see to it that Mr. Kaiba makes a full recovery. I think it’s best for him to be moved to the hospital to have a full check-up, though as his legal guardian I would need you to consent to that.”

 

It was imperative that this was a discreet affair, one word of rumour that the president of Kaiba Corp. had been admitted to the hospital unconscious and the effect on stock prices would be detrimental. You would not have Seto wake up to that.

 

You were changed out of your nightgown; half conscious and hardly sane. You didn’t care for make up, the exchange from the vehicle to the hospital would be so carefully guarded that no one would see you. Still, you would enter separately from him to be perfectly certain no suspicion was raised.

 

Extensive blood work was done, extracting some seven vials. You physically hurt at the sight, holding his hand again. “You gave me so much blood,” you mumbled under your breath, stroking his much larger hand, “and now you’re losing more because I was bad at taking care of you. Seto I’m so sorry.”

 

It was as if the flip of a coin, your sudden switch, how you grew tender just for him.

 

His blood pressure was taken and vitals checked, and the diagnosis; that he had contracted a particularly difficult strain of the flu. The examinations confirmed he had retained no trauma to the skull and cold air finally filled your lungs. A vaccine was administered and you winced again as the needle for saline and medication was injected.

 

“He is free to be discharged, if you wish take him home,” the doctor advised. You wouldn’t acknowledge him, or perhaps you had nodded; you didn’t know.

 

 

 

Back in the bedroom you shared, as everyone left the room, you returned to his bedside, rooted to the chair he always occupied watching over you. You held his large hand with both of yours, weaving your fingers as tight as you could hold them through his.

 

Then the tears came. It was guilt; followed by more guilt for dwelling on personal emotions at a time you should have been selflessly devoting your concerns for him. And yet the fear always nagged, knocking on some far recess of your mind; _you didn’t want to become a widow at twenty-one._ A life without him would be unfathomable; unbearable, and all of a sudden, you understood his heart, waiting for you to open your eyes to him.

 

…

 

Seto woke up to a devastating rainstorm. It was deafening. The room held an eerie stillness to it, the sombreness which always followed profound sadness, or a tragedy. Dusty light which stole through the half open curtains filled it. And amongst it, there was a spot of warmth against his side.

 

It wasn’t either of the the mangy weasels you raised, those had taken up residence on his pillow as they always did, as if they paid rent. No, just against his waist, face buried into the silk duvet, he found you, hunched over from the bedside chair.

 

You were going to suffocate yourself that way, so he freed his arms to turn your head for air. You had seized one hand, the same also pricked with a needle at the crook of his elbow.

 

Suddenly he found himself needing context for this situation; the last he could remember was stepping out of the shower. But you were the priority.

 

He gently shifted your face away from where it was nuzzled into the sheets. You murmured and fussed against him, annoyed by the disturbance. He hushed you.

 

You were wearing his sweater, one of his many black ones.Seto folded the comforter over, draping it to also cover you. You mumbled his name and some incoherent complaint and huddled closer to his side.

 

…

 

When you woke up he had moved to sit up against the headboard, the comforter draped over him was also wrapped around you and he was staring out at the rain.

 

The sight of him awake was so overwhelming that you couldn’t help but lunge for him. Except, weighed by the comforter, in combination with your limbs numb from being situated in one attitude for the better part of the morning, and an orientation recovering still from sleep, you fell clumsily on to his lap.

 

He placed his open palm over your head, holding you down. Was he trying to pet you like a cat? It was endearing though just as strange.

 

A low laugh rumbled in his chest. It resolved in a hoarse cough, you could hear now the phlegm in his lungs. 

 

Still, you couldn’t help yourself, you drove your fist weakly into his chest. You hit him softly, again and again and he did nothing to stop you.

 

“You had me so worried,” you sobbed. “I thought something would happen to you and that I would — that I would be all alone again and — ”

 

His voice was surprisingly coherent amongst the rawness. “I’m fine,” he said. “In fact I was waiting for you to get up so I could get to work.”

 

“Get to work?” You released your hold on him, sitting up; gathering your legs under you to sit on them. Anger boiled for his inconsiderateness towards all your concern and hours spent courting the darkest thoughts. “Get to work?” you repeated. “Do you know what I’ve been through this morning? You collapsed like you would just die and you were unconscious and freezing and they said you needed to be taken to the hospital! No one would give me any answer there on if you would be okay and I — I was losing my mind! I thought I had killed you and thought about every way I could follow you if you really did! And you want to go back to work?” Your voice was piping. Seto was nonplussed. “Take one step from this bed and I really will kill you Seto. You have the flu and you’re on the brink of pneumonia. You might be the president of Kaiba Corp. but in this house you’re my husband and you will not make me a widow at twenty one. So you will listen to me if you know what’s best for you. Do you understand?”

 

Traces of a smile gleamed in his eyes. “...Come here,” Seto husked, pulling you in and allowing you to collapse against him. “What do you suppose I do about my meetings with you like this?”

 

“I really hate you, you know that? You’re supposed to be invincible...what am I supposed to do if you’re here like this?” It was selfish, you realized, to hold such an expectation over him, but he centred you — he was your pillar. “I sometimes wish you were half-cyborg like they say you are.”

 

“Wish I was what? Who says that?” Your husband sounded genuinely surprised.

 

“Everyone who knows you. That you’re bulletproof and invincible because you’re half cyborg. They also say you’re a complete jackass because your brain is all artificially engineered.”

 

A low grunt of displeasure rolled in his throat. “Is that right?”

 

In his embrace you turned, stretching out your legs and wriggling under the comforter. “Promise you won’t go to work today? And for a few days?”

 

“I’ll need to call in and postpone my meetings.”

 

“I’ve already done that for you. The meeting you had with the Chinese distributors today I’ve changed to be a video conference and I’ll be taking that in your study at half ten tomorrow. No one wants to drive in this rain anyway.” You exchanged an adoring gaze with him, though never quite finding the admiration he had for you in his eyes. “Now,” you said, “food. I’ve asked for the chefs to start a chicken soup and a pie. Anything else you’re craving?”

 

“I don’t like asking you for anymore than you’ve given me,” Seto spoke almost cautiously.

 

“What is it?” you asked, all of a sudden concerned.

 

“Your cooking, make something for me.”

 

…

 

The kitchen staff rushed to you as you made your presence known at the doorway to the kitchen.

 

“Seto wants to eat something I’ve made so — ” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose “— so if you could be kind enough to give me the kitchen for the next hour and put away the soup you made in the fridge, that would be lovely. Also, does anyone know if we have mutton?” He had asked for mutton soup.

 

You called Mokuba as you waited for the soup to boil, breaking to him a very mild version of what had transpired earlier that morning. Mokuba seemed only mildly concerned; after all, he had said, you were by his brother’s side, so...who better?

 

Returning to the bedroom, the tray was arranged with a bowl of hot mutton soup, a slice of yesterday’s Victoria sponge and the chicken pie you had asked the chefs to make.

 

In some ways, Seto was easy to please.

 

He was reading some book. _Many Mansions _, you noted as you set it on the counter.__

 

 

 

“I didn’t realize you took an interest in reincarnation,” you said, picking up the bowl of soup and blowing on it.

 

 

 

“I don’t,” he replied, moving to take the bowl from you, “not particularly. And you don’t need to feed me, I can take care of myself.”

 

 

 

“No, but you feed me all the time.” You wrestled the bowl back, the broth swishing dangerously close to the edge.

 

 

 

“Because you insist on it.”

 

 

 

“To quote you from when I was in the hospital — ” you cleared your throat, comically deepening your voice as low as you could manage “— ‘you burnt yourself on breakfast and spilt lunch all over yourself,’ or something like that and insisted on feeding me. I imagine how weird it was for me, having a stranger claiming to be my husband feeding me dinner.”

 

 

 

“You’re insufferable.”

 

 

 

“You know I was afraid of you back then,” you told him, stirring the soup and watching the vapour rise out. You held out a spoonful and he leaned forward to drink it. “I want to say I was afraid when I married you too.”

 

 

 

“Where is this coming from?” Seto asked, drawing together heavy brows over clouded eyes.

 

 

 

“I just, if I had known...back then...that you could also get sick and be in pain — ”

 

 

 

“I’m not in pain,” he interjected.

 

 

 

You would only smile as you continued, holding out another spoonful. It would be pointless to contend with him. You blew on the spoonful, just in case. He held your hand to stabilize your grip as he sipped it.

 

 

 

“I’m sorry...about yesterday. This is all my fault.”

 

 

 

“It’s not your fault.”

 

 

 

“It is.”

 

 

 

“Drop it,” he snapped. Then he sighed, and for a long while, as you held out spoonful after spoonful, and he drank it, he would say nothing. You both listened to the rain outside.

 

 

 

“...Be careful,” you said. “I tried to make the mutton tender but it can be tough since I boiled it in such a hurry, so chew on it properly.”

 

 

 

“I’m not your child,” Seto replied.

 

 

 

“...How’s your appetite? Can you taste anything?”

 

 

 

“I’m not as sick as you think I am,” he stubbornly replied.

 

 

 

You nodded, unconvinced by the facade.

 

 

 

You would continue to stare down at the murky surface of the soup; never finding his eyes even as you fed him. It was an absent detail though for the man who scrutinized your every sigh and wrinkle, this was not missed. So it was natural that he would notice the dribbling tears first.

 

 

 

You found a firm thumb pressed against the inner corner of your eye, wiping away the wetness that had only in that moment become uncomfortable as it spilled over your trembling chin. “I’m so sorry,” you blurted, “I’m so sorry about last night. I know you don’t want to hear it but you were just looking out for me and this family and I made you...You lost so much blood when you’ve already given me so much and I — I promise I’ll do better. I’m so sorry. I have so much growing up to do I realize now that...”

 

 

 

“I’m not asking you to grow up,” he said, picking up the tray set over the sheets and balancing it on his book over the nightstand. He gently coaxed the nearly empty bowl out of your hands and made space for it on the tray.

 

 

 

You looked down at your hands on your lap. “Why can’t I do one apology right?”

 

 

 

“Like I said,” Seto began again, “I’m not askingyou to grow up. I expected you to at the conception of this marriage but that has since been proven an impossibility. It certainly wouldn’t surprise me if you continue to behave this way until we’re — as you say — old and grey.”

 

 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

 

 

“It’s nothing that warrants an apology.”

 

 

 

“You’ve given me a home and a family and all I ever wanted was to make you happy.”

 

 

 

“Conversely,” he said, “what makes you think you haven’t?”

 

 

 

You could think to say nothing.

 

 

 

“Look at me,” your husband said, raising your chin. “I’ve grown conditioned to expect certain things fromyou. The odd petulance and isolated tantrum you throw my way I’ve come to associate with coming home. It’s unapologetically you.”

 

 

 

“I’ll give you lots of babies, I promise,” you whispered, looking back over your lap.

 

 

 

“What?” It was impossible for him not to laugh.

 

 

 

“I’ll get heathy. I’ll eat properly and train with you and...”

 

 

 

“And?” He looked over you with certain endearment, but you weren’t looking at him.

 

 

 

“We’ll have enough babies to make a volleyball team.”

 

 

 

“I don’t think I want that many children,” Seto replied, biting back a chuckle.

 

 

 

“How many do you want?”

 

 

 

“As many as you can give me,” he said.

 

 

 

“But you just said — ”

 

 

 

“I know what I said. Is this the sponge from yesterday?”

 

 

 

“It is,” you said.

 

 

 

“It was good.”

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

As a maid cleared the night table, you had only left the room for the briefest of moments to answer a phone call, and when you returned, Seto had fallen asleep as he was, against the headboard. If that wasn’t a testament to his poor healthy, you didn’t know what was.

 

 

 

You contemplated taking a quick picture for future blackmailing, before reflecting on the moral aspect of it. Except, one could never have enough material for blackmail over a man like Seto Kaiba. This was one to show the grandchildren.

 

 

 

Creeping around the bed, you stared out at the rain devastating the magnolia groove in the distance for a while before curling up against his side and falling asleep yourself.

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

You woke up with a start to laboured coughing.

 

 

 

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he groaned, attempting to subdue its intensity.

 

 

 

Scrambling to sit up, while rubbing your bleary eyes, you reached to knead circles on his back.

 

 

 

“I’m fine,” Seto insisted, the paroxysm of coughs unrelenting.

 

 

 

Without a word you left the bed, intentionally offering him no clarity as to where you were headed. If you had told him, he likely would have taken counter measures, and you couldn’t have that.

 

 

 

You would admit it was somewhat of a surprise to be told that the mansion had a stock of Tiger Balm; a surprise it would seem, to Seto also.

 

 

 

The moment you broke the seal and the biting smell of the herbal ointment wafted up, his nose immediately crinkled.

 

 

 

“What the hell is that for?” he asked from his make shift throne of pillows he had won back from the kitties.

 

 

 

“Do you need to be told? It’ll help your coughing and clear up your sinuses,” you told him, sitting by him against the edge of the bed.

 

 

 

“Not a chance in hell you’re getting that outdated muck anywhere near me. It smells vile and no amount of threatening a fit or being cute is going to work.”

 

 

 

Tub of ointment in hand you straddled him. Even in his present condition, it was unlikely that you could overpower him. “Is that right?” you purred. “I didn’t hear anything in there about being seduced.”

 

 

 

He grumbled your name in exasperation. “You’re going to contract the virus.”

 

 

 

“Is my big, scary husband scared of the little vapour rub burning him?” you cooed.

 

 

 

With a derisive snort, Seto rolled his eyes, beginning to form some equally sarcastic remark. In his momentary distraction you smacked your lips against his. It was less than what you had planned; it wasn’t sexy or even sultry, and it was a stroke of luck that your teeth didn’t clank against each other, though amidst the sloppy haze where it only occurred to him moments following to push you away from him, you slipped your hands up his shirt.

 

 

 

Again, what transpired was less an erotic or even romantic affair, and more a struggle, where Seto was investing more caution in making certain your wrists didn’t snap in his grip as he subdued you than, well,actually subduing you. “Unless you want to be lying here tomorrow,” he spoke between gritted teeth, “get off me and stop being a child.”

 

 

 

The damage had been done however. He should have thought it strange that you surrendered so willingly, even before that goofy smile encroach your whole face. It was so plainly obvious; you had won.

 

 

 

“It’s all over you now,” you said, remarking of the glob of balm you had smeared across his stomach.

 

 

 

He was thoroughly unimpressed and he held no reservations in voicing it. “Get it off me.” The words were each, individually enunciated. He held the hem of his sweater gathered up in his fist, careful so that it would not smell of the ointment.

 

 

 

You giggled like a school girl. “No.”

 

 

 

His response was a dangerous husk of your name. “Don’t play games with me.”

 

 

 

“Seto, stop being so over dramatic over some vapour rub,” you said, seizing the one hand that he could defend himself with, while with your other, you soothed the gel over his stomach, spreading it up towards his chest. Out of reflex he released his sweater to snatch your hand, and the realization of what he had done passed over his expression in many phases; first frustration, then aggravation and finally defeat. His condition wasn’t ideal for countering you at your most determined and disobedient. “It’ll make you feel better,” you said to him, pecking his cheek as you continued to massage the balm into his chest.

 

 

 

“I smell like a retirement home,” he groused.

 

 

 

“And you would be my retirement home.”

 

 

 

“That made less sense than you usually do.’

 

 

 

“Maybe because you’re sick,” you said, throwing the tub of balm in the drawer of the nightstand. “Your insults are less on the ball than they usually are.”

 

 

 

He grunted, reaching for the novel he had been reading.

 

 

 

 

 

You settled beside him with a bridal magazine, excited to receive his criticism on the wedding planning, because god knew when you would find him in a state more idle — read: emotionally vulnerable — to extort him of his opinions. This was of course, if he was willing to spare you any attention.

 

 

 

At your first question, a fairly simple one you had assumed on his wedding cake flavour preference, you had received a long winded answer which would, as he had likely assumed go on to answer all the rest. “Why waste time time asking me for my opinion,” he had said, nonchalantly turning a page, not even bothering to look up, “you’ll do everything you want, exactly as you want regardless of what I say.”

 

 

 

To which you couldn’t help but ask, “Is this about that wedding dress you had had designed?”

 

 

 

“Amongst other things.”

 

 

 

“What else is there?” you asked, nuzzling up him. “I just want you to be involved in this at least to some extent so you don’t feel like you’ve walked into somebody else’s wedding.”

 

 

 

He closed his book. More than anything, he looked like he needed nap, at least three days long. He snatched your magazine and laid it over his lap. “This will never work,” he said. “I’ll have an appointment scheduled with a French pastry chef. As for preferences, as long as you don’t choose something citrus, I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”

 

 

 

“I don’t like lemon.”

 

 

 

“Good,” your husband said. He flipped the page; a spread discussing popular ceremony and honeymoon destinations. “I think it would be sensible to hold the ceremony and reception in Japan.”

 

 

 

“I agree.” You cradled your head against his shoulder, looking up to him as you spoke. “Anywhere you want to go for the honeymoon?”

 

 

 

“You want us to have a honeymoon?”

 

 

 

“I mean...yeah...why not?”

 

 

 

“It seems frivolous. And I have a company to run. I was under the understanding that I had agreed to a wedding.”

 

 

 

“I understand that,” you replied, numb and tingling suddenly with a sinking disappointment, “but I mean, me and this marriage is just as important to you isn’t it? You have a company to run, I get that, so do I, but, you also have a marriage to keep alive. Or am I already being taken for granted?”

 

 

 

“Are you crying again?” Seto asked, peering down.

 

 

 

“Well it’s just that you used to obsess so much over my bucket list that I just — was that all just some plot to get me to fall for you again?”

 

 

 

“Of course not,” he grunted, “and fine. If you want it so badly.”

 

 

 

“I do.”

 

 

 

Finding the way you pouted helplessly endearing, Seto wondered if perhaps he was encouraging your petulance while allowing himself to be manipulated by it. He pressed a kiss to your hair. “Where do you want to go?”

 

 

 

“If they had a country of cats, I would say there.”

 

 

 

“They have those here in Japan.” He regretted it almost immediately as the words had left him.

 

 

 

“Oooh,” you cooed, “Really? I’m adding that to my bucket list but no, somewhere romantic. I’ll think about it.”

 

 

 

Perfect, he thought, one more thing which will be held over his head and used as leverage to sway his opinion about everything else.

 

 

 

You had already started asking him more questions about this cat island, and explaining the existence of such a _utopian paradise_ to your over-groomed raccoons as if they could understand a word. He needed an overdose of cough medicine to find this tolerable, and then some.

 

 

 

Eventually you fell asleep. He worried that you may have already contracted his flu. Seto stroked your hair for as long as his eyes would stay open before also succumbing to the pull of the last dose of cough medicine.

 

 

 

…

 

It would rain all day it would seem. Seto hated feeling unproductive but he could not gather his faculties enough to summon any desire nor the focus to work. Awake, he stared up at the ceiling, slightly cross eyed.

 

 

 

It did not matter how you fell asleep or where; it was just a law of nature that you would, the way entropy was, navigate your way in your sleep to clamber him like a tree. Normally, Seto had no complaints, but in his current, congested, sore-muscled state threatening a crippling migraine, your usually light body was not welcome. But he did not want to heave you off, nor he suspected, did he possess the adequate strength to even if he so wished.

 

 

 

So he resolved to gently rousing you. Something he hated to do; you had appeared so peaceful, giggling quietly in your sleep. He observed how your eyelashes flittered, likely engrossed in some dream.

 

 

 

You woke up at his persuasion and offered him a quizzical look. “Did you need something my love?” you groggily slurred.

 

 

 

 _My love?_ He wasn’t averse to the title. Archaic and dramatic, though he definitely was not averse to it.

 

 

 

“No, you’re just heavy.”

 

 

 

“Sorry.” You blushed. “I guess I need to lose some weight.”

 

 

 

“Might I remind you,” he scolded, easing you into the sheets, “that is exactly the opposite of what you should be doing.”

 

 

 

Undiscouraged, you wriggled back to rest your head on his shoulder and this was bearable. You asked him for the time, and he watched as you slowly folded the fingers of your left hand, counting down to something. “You still have an hour before you need your next dose of medicine,” you concluded.

 

 

 

Seto had trouble fathoming why you were so good to him, why you so genuinely loved him. What did someone so extraordinary see in the likes of him? An actual goddess in his eyes, made no less perfect by your sometimes maddening idiosyncrasies, he spent most of his days justifying that he deserved you. In fact, those idiosyncrasies made you irreplaceable to him. It was truly a frightening ledge to stand on for the rest of his life, though without it he would drown.

 

 

 

He found himself recollecting a time where you could find no affection for him; no memory of him. He shuddered. And further back to a time where this moment right now had seemed impossible.

 

 

 

“What are you thinking about?” you asked him, staring up at his face.

 

 

 

He wouldn’t answer, only returning your gaze.

 

 

 

“You know...I really love you so much,” you murmured, nuzzling your nose as if to kiss him, burrowing into his chest. He smelt of vapour rub and his breath slightly of cherry tonic from the cough medicine but you wouldn’t mind it.

 

 

 

How strange it was to feel so much for one person.

 

 

 

“I bought us a house,” was his awkward, drug addled response — perhaps you should have interpreted this as a product of his usually well masked shyness. “In Tokyo.”

 

 

 

“You what? Seto why?”

 

 

 

“It was as I recall something you wanted to do with your husband when you married. Suffer through assembling and decorating it with IKEA furniture among other childish things.”

 

 

 

There may have been gaps in your memory though you certainly had not written that on your bucket list. You had a perfectly decorated home that meant a great deal to your husband; it seemed pointless to litter it with IKEA furniture that would distract from the old money vibe of the place. You knew your husband didn’t care for the antiques, but you saw the side-glances he gave the scratching poles and cat toys which punctuated the bedroom.

 

 

 

“Seto I’ve never told you that.” You couldn’t recall telling anyone that.

 

 

 

He remained silent. He couldn’t give himself away.

 

 

 

“Like I said, I have my sources.”

 

 

 

“What does that even mean?”

 

 

 

“It means I ran every statistic and byte of data there was to be absolutely certain that you and I were compatible. It must have been something I came across while researching your background.

 

 

 

“...Does that upset you? Would you rather choose the house yourself?”

 

 

 

“No. I mean, I feel stalked, but I suppose that’s the double standard in being good looking, so long as it was you, I don’t care. It’s not like I can ask for a divorce from you. And no, I’m sure whatever house you bought, it will be fine. For a childish side project, I’m not going to be too picky. That’s really sweet of you...and thoughtful.”

 

 

 

“Then it’s fine.”

 

 

 

“Out of curiosity,” you asked, “how much was it?”

 

 

 

“The house? 9 million.”

 

 

 

“Yen?”

 

 

 

“Child, where would you find anything for 9 million yen?” Seto ridiculed. “In Azabu no less. 950 million yen.”

 

 

 

“You spent how much on a house we’ll never live in?”

 

 

 

Seto was flippant. “I can afford it. I’ve bought you necklaces more expensive.”

 

 

 

You began to question if your back accounts did truly match.

 

 

 

“Yes but for some IKEA furniture! You spent 950 million yen on a house I’m literally going to decorate with a cheap dresser and a dining table! That’s — are we at least selling it after?”

 

 

 

“You’re making an unnecessarily big deal over some cheap throwaway villa. I intend to keep it.”

 

 

 

“Seto!”

 

 

 

Your campaign to make him see some sense was soon interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Upon being invited in, a maid bowed before crossing the room. It required too much effort to separate yourself from Seto. It was also, much too comfortable.

 

 

 

“There is a Miss Risae Kawasaki is the main drawing room. Master Mokuba asked that she be let in,” she said.

 

 

 

“He did what now?” Seto growled, attempting to sit up and don his usual menace, though it fell rather short.

 

 

 

“Do you know a Risae?” you asked your husband, moving away from him to sit against the head board.

 

 

 

“This would be the first I’m hearing it.”

 

 

 

You crawled over Seto to the edge of the bed.

 

 

 

“You’re going to greet a stranger looking like that?” he asked

 

 

 

“I intend to brush my hair.”

 

 

 

“I meant the outfit.”

 

 

 

You appraised your present attire, the hem of his black sweater hovering over your mid thigh; the rest of it all legs. “I’ll wear a robe,” you replied, and the maid made haste to set off towards the closet in search of one. “Besides, if she wants to barge into my home without calling in prior, how I present myself should be the least of her worries. It shouldn’t offend her if she was thrown out given the short notice.”

 

 

 

Seto was greatly pleased by how you referred to the manor as _your home._

 

…

 

 

 

Risae was at first glance charming, you were sure no one would dispute; short, wavy strawberry blonde hair crowned with a neat side braid secured by a couple of pink hairpins evocative of every other seen on Harajuku. She was even pretty, though nothing above ordinary as she kept to herself in the grand drawing room which dwarfed her. You noticed her eyes did wander.

 

 

 

You observed her from the doorway, the maid silently lurking behind you. You said nothing, appraising the quintessential white dress cinched by a blush sash which young girls wore like a uniform this time of year, complimented by a denim jacket. Again, you could find in her nothing spectacular. Perhaps especially in contrast with the room, she was in every sense a commoner. No, it was how she carried herself, slightly hunched, allowing the room to drown her, as if the furniture intimidated her.

 

 

 

It was an odd sight to find in the mansion.

 

 

 

“Good afternoon,” you said, striding in. She seemed to shrink away at each approaching step. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

 

 

She stood — shot up to her feet and fell so swiftly to a bow so deep that you stiffened, unsure whether to marvel at her grace or to be concerned for her spine. “I’m so sorry for showing up unannounced!” she said, slightly louder than needed. “My name is Risae Kurosawa, it’s lovely to finally meet you!”

 

 

 

“Lovely to...finally...meet me?” you asked. It was warm in the room despite the miserable storm outside. You handed your robe to the maid. You were sure your husband would have a choice few words for your presentation but you felt much more comfortable in just his sweater.

 

 

 

“Yes! I brought you this,” she replied, extending her arms robotically with a white box in a translucent polythene bag. “It’s a cake, chocolate mousse. I heard you liked that. It’s supposed to be really good!”

 

 

 

You didn’t accept it. Not yet. “Risae,” you said, as kindly as possible. “I hate to be blunt but who are you and why are you here?”

 

 

 

“Mokuba asked me to come. We were supposed to come together but he said work would keep him for a few more hours and said his brother was sick and that you might need some help.”

 

 

 

You finally reached out for the offering she held out. “You’re...Mokuba’s girlfriend?”

 

 

 

You were skeptical. She blushed. “Yes.” She would not meet your eyes.

 

 

 

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” you said cautiously. “I would give you a hug but as you know Seto came down with the flu and I’ve been tending to him all day and I rather not pass it on.” Tending to him, passing out like a cat sporadically beside him, same difference.

 

 

 

With a nervous giggle she nodded. “It’s fine, is there anything I can help you with?” She was rolling up her sleeves.

 

 

 

“No, no of course not, you’re a guest. Sit. What would you like to drink? Tea, coffee, something fizzy?”

 

 

 

She seemed apprehensive to answer.

 

 

 

“It’s alright,” you told her, “what will you have?”

 

 

 

“Tea— but even water is fine. I’m sure you’re already busy, I don’t want to trouble you!” Her voice was still a nervous combination of breathy and loud.

 

 

 

You smiled. “Dear, we have a staff of over fifty personnel working at any given hour. I don’t really do much.”

 

 

 

Her mouth seemed to fall agape. That seemed to confirm it, if her attire had not; she wasn’t a trust fund baby.

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

 

 

You sat across the chaise from her, a high teapoy of blackcurrant-rose and pistachio-vanilla macarons arranged on a platter of sliced passion fruit roulade, sugar cookies, cupcakes and tea between you.

 

 

 

You had asked her several times to help herself, and she had eventually submitted to nibbling on the foot of a macaron.

 

 

 

“Will you not have anything?” she asked.

 

 

 

“I don’t drink tea or coffee and I’m alright for sweets right now.”

 

 

 

She nodded.

 

 

 

The conversion before this had been small talk, complaining about the weather; had she found the place alright? It had meant to play an icebreaker but she was so shy and reserved that the dynamic remained unfamiliar.

 

 

 

In a way you were relieved that Seto had not made his presence known before the poor girl. She would have without a doubt been terrorized by your husband. Even now, sometimes his mere glance agitated you.

 

 

 

You could think nothing to ask her, and what you could, you debated whether it was too personal. The last you needed was intimidating her without Mokuba being present to be a crutch and shield.

 

 

 

“So...do you duel?” you finally asked. It was a dumb, out of nowhere inquiry which held no consequence, at least not to you. She watched you as if you had grown a third eye. You laughed, albeit nervously. “Don’t worry, it’s not a requirement to join the family. I can’t duel to save my life.”

 

 

 

“Mokuba tells me you’re good.”

 

 

 

“I’ve duelled once, properly. Every other time had been against Seto. The one time I did duel, I used his deck and he needed to come in and clean up my mess. Honestly, I suck. It’s fine if you do too. In fact, I’ll like you better if you do.”

 

 

 

“Mr. Kaiba lets you use his deck?” she asked in awe. 

 

 

 

“Use his desk, hold on to his blue eyes like a good luck charm. He’s uhm...cute that way.”

 

 

 

She seemed to suddenly hold you with a reverence, more so that before, if it was possible. “I’ve only played at card shops. And my campus has a duel monsters club that I’m a part of. I have some rare cards. I’ll show you my deck later if you’d like.”

 

 

 

“Later, perhaps,” you agreed. There were, to put it civilly, a great number of other things which would precede in importance, looking at a deck of duel monster cards. There were so many briefcases full of these supposedly rare cards lying around that you could not see the significance. If it meant anything, Seto would own it; three of it.“You mentioned campus,” you inquired, “if you don’t mind, how old are you?”

 

 

 

“Twenty one, I just turned twenty one,” she replied.

 

 

 

“We are the same age then,” you said. “Don’t worry about all the formal stuff then. It’s weird to hear it anyway.”

 

 

 

She hesitated. “Are you — are you sure?”

 

 

 

“You’ve been using it on and off anyway. As long as you don’t talk to Seto like that, informally I mean, I could care less how you talk to me.”

 

 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

 

 

“Don’t be.”

 

 

 

“...If you insist.”

 

 

 

…

 

 

 

Tea was awkward, the rain continued to serve the finest drama as if it would go out of style the very next day and Seto had yet again, under the influence of a new dose of medicine, fallen asleep. As with all other things he did, once inclined to something, he would not be persuaded otherwise; and though he rarely ever did, sleep was not an exception. You needed to feed him lunch and he would have none of it; bless him he was dead to the world. Men, you so concluded, when stripped bare of all their titles and egotism, were all babies; yours —Seto Kaiba included.

 

 

 

You would try again when lunch was actually ready. Perhaps blasting a cymbal in his ears would keep him

 

awake long enough to shove enough nutrition down his throat to sustain him.

 

 

 

Mokuba would not be home for many number of hours though you had no mind of sending poor Risae back home to the other end of the city in this rain. A simple stroll to the front gates was an obstacle course of mini-motes and tall oaks waiting to fall. You would not have it.

 

 

 

You had her call home explaining that she would not be returning home tonight.

 

 

 

Understanding — though with no consultation at all from your husband — that assuming she had developed a relationship intimate enough to share a room with Mokuba would be as inappropriate as inquiring her about it, you guided her into a nearby guest bedroom.

 

 

 

“You’re lucky,” you told her, turning on the lights to the en-suite bathroom. “The first night I was here, it also rained badly like this. It was just Seto and I back then. I had nothing but his clothes to change into.” You reminisced that first night, it was now a fond memory. It was even if vaguely, the first you had felt someone’s warmth. “Yup...his awkwardly long pyjamas and shirt which ended up being a dress on me. You know that’s what he gave me three mile long pants. At least now you’ll have mine. We’re probably the same size.

 

 

 

“You know I think it’s a sign,” you joked, “apparently when any man brings home a girl that’s good enough to be family, it pours and strands them in the manor.”

 

 

 

Could she not find the humour in it or was it too brash? She appeared unnerved by it.

 

 

 

“It was supposed to be a joke.”

 

 

 

“Ah! I understand,” was her reply.

 

 

 

How awkward. You could just die.

 

 

 

Risae was eager to help with lunch, and despite numerous explanations that it was rare for you to ever prepare a meal in this household, she followed you to the kitchen to help in any way that she could.

 

 

 

She was astounded by every maid and butler who bowed at every turn of the mansion, and as expected, disconcerted by the kitchen ahead of lunch. 

 

 

 

“See,” you told her, observing the chefs, “hardly anything for me to do. And if Seto didn’t insist on eating something I made, I wouldn’t even be here.”

 

 

 

You asked for the head chef to guide you along making a Korean congee, and your would-be sister-in-law appointed herself with enthusiastic willingness to be your sous chef. It was both endearing and irritating. You were yet to decide which. You had never wanted a sister. Incidentally, you had learned — stumbling upon an old KC video game, that Mokuba could serve as both.

 

 

 

As the cooks began plating, you left her in their care for only a moment to answer a phone call which was forwarded to you from Seto’s phone. It was his secretary, calling to advise of a further postponed meeting.

 

 

 

When you returned, Risae had vanished. One of the maids were folding a swan from a paper serviette for the lunch tray still on the island counter. No one could account for Risae’s sudden disappearance.

 

 

 

You checked the nearby toilets, though she had asked no one for directions, before on a hunch racing for the bedroom.

 

 

 

There you found her, leaned over your husband.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!
> 
> Tell me if you thought the song fit! (lol if you thought I was done promoting my faves.)


	60. Family Politics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve written a ridiculous amount of chapters now — over A hundred — so I hope you can forgive a few bad apples here and there. This was all plot, as this is slowing coming to an end so I’m resolving everything I possibly can. There will likely be a handful more chapters at best! And their wedding and any important things I’ll make as a one/two shot whenever. 
> 
> Also I wrote this in more less one sitting. Yes all 6500 words. -_-
> 
> Enjoy!

It was ominously familiar this scene, you practiced the words over and over in your head but it would always just be a rehearsal; as in all those dreams you were mute. You heart ran fast in your chest. 

 

And then with a pitched squeal she stumbled back; her ankles catching on each other, it escalated to a sudden fall.

 

Seto shot out of bed, calling your name, as if clockwork springing forth on reflex. His fingers wrapped her small wrists, another arm diving under her back. He was awake now, and even in his delirium he knew your face, and this was not you.

 

“Who the hell are you supposed to be?” he snarled, mercilessly releasing her to the cold marble. “And what are you doing in this room?”

 

“Ri-Risae, sir. Moku-ba’s — friend.”

 

“Like I said,” your husband inquired, “what are you doing in my bedroom?”

 

It was striking, his transformation, how still stranded in his incoherence, donned this incredible facade of power, composure; how well he forged a state of being in control. It was in every sense him, as the public knew him, he exuded this petrifying sense of danger with a mere trace of his eye over his subject; a swipe of paralyzingly blue.

 

“A maid told me to bring you some tea, and I — I think you mistook me for your girlfriend and pulled me in and I — I’m so sorry!” she whimpered.

 

You followed the turn of her head to the nightstand to find the cup and saucer of tea. You observed Seto’s gaze follow.

 

“She’s not my girlfriend, she’s my wife,” Seto barked. “And you have no reason to be in here. I will give you the benefit of the doubt this once but understand I don’t take kindly to liars. I advise you take your leave and make certain I never catch you in here again. If I do, understand that I will make no exception a second time and there will be consequences. Do I make myself clear?”

 

Your husband never used that tone on you. If he ever did, you liked to believe that your own ire would rise up in waves to meet him, though in that moment, merely witnessing the exchange, your skin prickled. You were afraid for her.

 

“I’m so sorry,” she croaked. She gathered herself clumsily to prostate herself on the stone floor. “It was an accident, sir, please believe me.”

 

“I think I told you to get out!” Seto roared. And she turned to stone, as if those words had stitched her limbs to the floor.

 

You could not vouch for her, in fact, your confidence in her story existed in some grey area but some instinct sparked and you elected yourself as her guarantor. Another moment and Seto would inflict on her trauma from which she would never quite recover.

 

“For god’s sake Seto she’s telling the truth,” you lied, charging forward before he did something unfathomable like breaking his teacup over her head. You draped an assuring arm over the girl dissolved into paroxysms of violent sobbing. You hushed her as you persuaded her to her feet.

 

You wouldn’t yet introduce her formally to him, now hardly seemed appropriate; him smelling of cherry tonic and spiced ointment and her in petrified hysterics. If you proceeded with it now, she would be rejected and shunned without another passing thought. 

 

It was always the mousy ones that one had to be weary of; the wily foxes and timid mice, they were two sides of the same coin, but more than your own, you trusted Mokuba’s judgement. A stupid thing certainly given his history, but an intelligent man as himself could only make the same mistake so many times before he had to be discounted of said intelligence, and you regarded him better.

 

Seto appeared skeptical. “Where have you been?” he questioned, almost accusingly.

 

“Looking into lunch,” you returned, equally sharp. “Anyway, some maid mistook her for a new recruit while I took a phone call from your secretary and sent her up here.”

 

“With that outfit I’m not surprised,” Seto sneered, regarding her up and down. You winced on her behalf though could not find it in yourself to counter your husband’s offhand remark in her presence. To some extent she had deserved it and to the other, when conducting yourself before Seto Kaiba, a certain rudeness was on-brand and to be expected. Such a powerful man was not to be trifled with and you knew your husband felt in that moment, trifled with. “That still doesn’t explain what you were doing.”

 

Risae looked at you, her chin trembling. You nodded for her to continue, tightening your grasp on her arms assuringly and she answered as if speaking to you. “He— he said something in his sleep, called out your name and tugged at my wrist and I — I swear I was just putting the tea here!”

 

You acknowledged the explanation with a small nod. “You look — ”

 

“And I grabbed on to you? You expect me to believe that I mistook you for my wife? Do I look senile to you?”

 

“Seto,” you chided. “She was trying to help. Mistakes happen, and she’s apologized already.”

 

Seto could only find disdain for her. “You’re too trusting.”

 

He looked away and you felt unwanted in your own bedroom.

 

…

 

You walked her back to her room. She settled as light as a feather on the edge of the bed, almost as if the slightest stir of air as she breathed would disturb the room. Again, she paled against the furniture.

 

“Thank you,” she said in a quiet voice which almost faded into the rain outside, “for believing me.”

 

“I don’t believe you,” you said. “But my...husband, as I’m sure you know he is now is not someone you’re capable of holding your own against. He’s not a man you can afford to make an enemy of, but a pre-schooler could tell you that. It will be difficult for you to stay with Mokuba without Seto’s blessing. He is the head of this family and no one, unless they leave the family or alternatively, fall off the face of the planet can go against him. And I suggest you don’t try.

 

“He’s untrusting, with good reason, and until I am certain what you have told me is the truth, you won’t find any more in me either. This family isn’t in a position to be kind.”

 

You motioned to the remote placed on the coffee table. “Make yourself comfortable. The tv has practically any channel on earth, and if you need to use the internet, you’re free to use the computer. The wifi should automatically connect to your phone or tablet.” You looked around in search of what had been missed. “You’re welcome to help yourself to whatever is in the mini-fridge, and if you want something else or want to have a hot shower or run a bath, let the maids know so they can get that ready for you. It’s just best that you don’t wander around for the time being.”

 

She nodded.

 

It felt as if you had distorted his character, introducing him as a villain. Or was your own perception of him the distortion? You were certain you no longer superimposed an ideal upon him; he had just come to be. He just was, everything you wanted but all at once, to the world, he remained the same man.

 

You turned to her again at the doorway. “I don’t want you to feel like we’re holding you captive, but we’ve had a lot of incidents lately, you understand.” You gave her a small smile. She wouldn’t return it. It would seem her face had been marked permanently with distress, as if a captured photo, frozen into that one expression. “I’ll call Mokuba and see if he can come home early.”

 

 

…

 

 

When you returned to the bedroom, Seto held you with a severe look. "Who is she? The truth this time."

 

"Mokuba's girlfriend, or so I'm told."

 

"Or so you're told?" your husband sought to clarify, never in possession of the patience for ambiguity though he practiced it all too often.

 

"Well," you said, straightening up, "he tells me."

 

"She looked like some pauper he picked up from the bargain bin. I didn't realize he was into charity cases. What family is she from?"

 

"I haven't asked."

 

"I can't have my brother seen in public with the likes of that woman," Seto declared. He reached for his phone and you snatched it away from reach.

 

"What are you thinking of doing?"

 

"Ask him if he's in his right mind. Or if he needs her to be paid off. That's not his type."

 

"Well his type faked a pregnancy, if that is what you're referring to. And you can't pay people off Seto, this isn't a drama."

 

"You underestimate how many prosecutors I have in my payroll."

 

"You're going off track!" You sighed, gathering your thoughts. "Look, her story checks out, I just asked the kitchen maid and she said basically the exact story as her."

 

"So you lied to me earlier?" The register was scathing and you winced. "I expected better from my own wife."

 

"I'm telling you the truth now!"

 

"You should know how I feel about liars."

 

"And you should know that a small white lie to defend an innocent is good karma."

 

"And suddenly you're religious? Give me back my phone, don't make me force it out of your grip."

 

"In that condition?" you shot back, though it was far from a challenge, and you hoped it had not been received as one. You continued before he could respond. "Seto, love, you can't slide envelopes full of money to people and throw glasses of water at them in public when they refuse to leave your brother. It's rude, in poor taste and if nothing else, bad press. I can't have that."

 

"You again underestimate how easy it is to buy the media."

 

"I don't know about you but I buy the media with a better story. I'm going to sit with her and Mokuba for dinner and hear him out."

 

"I will have no such thing in my own house. I want her gone. I need her gone."

 

"Need I remind you, Seto, that this is also my house. This and the rest of your estate." It was a spiteful retaliation. You waited for his move.

 

"...How serious is he about this?" Seto was exceptionally calm.

 

"I think that's something you need to ask him," you replied silently.

 

His was a grunt of acknowledgement.

 

...

 

After a quiet lunch with Seto in the bedroom, you went in search of Risae.

 

You knocked and heard nothing. You knocked once again and were left listening to the sound of rain; then followed hurried footsteps to the door and the door swinging open.

 

"Sorry!" she squealed, bowing.

 

"For?" you asked.

 

"For taking so long to come to the door," she said.

 

"You could have just told me to come in. Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you, but I'm just coming to apologize. And to let you know that the maid will be disciplined and likely dismissed. This is not how we treat a guest in this house. I'm very sorry you had to go through that."You offered her a low bow.

 

She seemed flustered when you met her gaze again. She squeaked some incoherent stutter, hands a frenzy in dismissal of the mere suggestion of an apology.

 

"It's uhm... well past lunch but I was wondering if there was something you'd like made...just because it might be a while till dinner and I don't want you starving on sugar."

 

"Oh no, no don't...I'm totally fine," Risae said.

 

"Alright..." you trailed off awkwardly.

 

Risae had this awful habit of never electing to fill the silence when conversing, and subsequently you were left with these unpleasant stretches of meeting eyes and looking away hoping she would finally show some semblance of a personality or humour. She just never had anything to say, and you could only contribute so much. This situation here was especially delicate, you would admit, but this was not the exception. It was not the situation, it was her; having conversed -- or at least having tried to -- with her for the better part of the afternoon, you had established that this was a constant. She held the colour of water, and was equally lukewarm.

 

"The evenings here sometimes tend to drag. Would you like to do something? I would invite you to a walk in the garden but its pouring. Maybe play a video game? Or cards?" And now you were rambling; your default response in personal situations which desperately needed to be filled.

 

"Anything is fine. I don't want to bother you."

 

You wanted to scream. Pull your hair out, and scream.

 

You understood now why people hated in-laws. You would much rather be snuggling with Seto, it was perfect English weather outside.

 

...

 

To her credit, to the contrary of all the brooding you had done over this potential in-law, you had made a discovery. You were not a lost cause at video games; against your husband, certainly, though that was likely the rule regardless of who he played. Granted this was a beginner level and you had precedence in handling the particular controller but she was in the most literal sense of the definition, crashing and burning at every turn of the race course. If Seto had witnessed this he would say that you were winning with no actual merit of your own, but you'd like to think that you were handling this game that you had never before played until now exceptionally well.

 

"I lost again," she said humbly, almost as if it had been the only recourse.

 

Her defeated disposition was tiring, and you considered, in this family, if she hoped to survive as a permanent fixture, she would need a serious jolt of charisma.

 

At the conclusion of an afternoon which had crawled, you had learnt nothing of her character; besides of course your previous verdict that you've seen white washed walls with more personality. And maybe that's how they balanced, you thought, she just stood to absorb all of his chaotic energy, the way you made Seto less of a jerk by merely standing beside him -- though you liked to think you and Seto had more similarities than differences. You would previously have believed it was impossible to know so little after devoting so much time to another person.

 

...

 

Then Mokuba entered the media room, expression heavy; and in contrast, from the corner of your eye, you saw Risae's lighten. She straightened up, a small smile spilling from the corners of her lips, as if a woodland creature peering out of its burrow in anticipation. You had not fathomed that the expression she wore had seemed burdensome on her small features until it had lifted.

 

Mokuba wished to speak with you in his brother's study in private. Seto will not be in attendance for this conversation; Mokuba had already met with him. From the dark pall suspended above him, you would assume that it had resolved nothing.

 

 

You sat against Seto’s desk, the door locked; your arms bound tightly. Mokuba stood facing you. You would find out that Seto had met him with indifference and a severely prejudice account. Seto had no spared no mercy and so the narrative had turned to you; the water often turned away from hard dams and sought softer barriers to flood through. She had been in your care, how had you been so careless?

 

There was no grace for your intervention; a maid had vouched for Risae’s account. It should have been obvious, Mokuba condemned, you ought to be a better judge of character. Choice words, you had thought, from the young man with a dangerous list of past lovers.

 

In the end he had been persuaded to see reason; there could be no sensible situation where a young woman happens upon a married man’s bedroom, and a less sensible situation still for her to roam so closely to him at a state so vulnerable. There remained also the matter of the status and importance of the man in question, and the recent series of threats the family had been under.

 

He listened, and despite his agreement persisted in defending her for her naivety and believing that his family was immediately hers also to tend to. It was supposedly an expectation of large, closely-knit middle classed families.

 

Then he hesitated, stroking the base of his neck. It was not the ideal circumstance, the present moment, he was aware he had said, while disclosing to you his intentions towards her.

 

“You want to propose to her? After knowing her for how long?” you asked, frightened by the implosion this would inflict upon the family. 

 

“Seto had known you how long before you two were legally married?”

 

“That’s besides the point!” you defended.

 

“How long?”

 

“We’ve met twice and had been briefly acquainted a week before we married.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“But this is different. _People will talk._ ”

 

“Because she’s not rich like us?” Mokuba questioned, riddled with offence. “So what — Seto can marry for love because you’re rich and I can’t because she’s poor?”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous Seto didn’t marry for love,” you said. “Like you just asked, he proposed to me within twenty four hours of having met me. He had researched me sure but it was at the time in every sense a marriage of convenience!”

 

“Oh you can’t possibly believe that,” Mokuba scoffed. “Seto fell stupid for you when you were like in high school, though I’m sure he would never admit to it. He of course realized much later that you were underaged and he would tell you his interest veered off but he was beyond help the moment he saw you.”

 

“He compiled information on me because he thought I was a good match,” you sought to clarify.

 

Your bother-in-law guffawed. “Is that what he said? I mean I’m sure he did but he was obsessed. Like you have no idea the things I’ve walked into...the things I’ve seen.”

 

“Things you’ve seen? What have you seen? What a wealth of knowledge you’re painting yourself to be.”

 

“I don’t care to recall, let’s say I was scarred and took one for the team.” He took a long breath as if just now recovering from the settled argument. “On a side note though, if you hadn’t fallen just as stupid and slept with him, I don’t know what he would have done. Seto...I don’t know how you see him now, but was a lot less...tame. He was unpredictable, obsessive and got on some crazy ledges. I like to think you got him down from those. He certainly seems a lot more human.”

 

“Mokuba...I don’t know what to say.”

 

“I do. Thank you for keeping my brother from attempting to dominate the world and splitting the continent in half in the process...or something, I don’t know.”

 

You shared a long laugh over that remark at your husband’s expense.

 

“...So I hate to ask for another thing, but help me out with this will you?”

 

“You’re not proposing to her,” was your honest reply. “Not unless you want to see your brother tear that poor girl and her extended family to pieces. Let me get to know her and see what I can do with Seto.”

 

He gave it some thought. “Thank you.”

 

...

 

Seto would not be at dinner. To you, his reasoning had been his presently poor health though you knew he felt himself too important to sit at a dinner with Risae. This was fine, there would now be little words of insults exchanged, save for yours and Mokuba's routinely banter — given of course the prevailing atmosphere — and the dinner as a whole would not dissolve into complete anarchy when Seto declared outright at some point during the night that Risae was not the class she expected his brother to court.

 

The head of the table was noticeably vacant; both of them occupied one side. Passing the chair to the right of the head where you usually dined, you moved to sit at the head. Dinner was already served.

 

"Seto won't be coming because he's not feeling very well," you said. Mokuba was already aware but you thought to divulge as a courtesy to Risae.

 

"Forget Seto. I don't know what she's told you," Mokuba told Risae, "but she's the only one you need to impress. If she gives you the green light, we're good to go."

 

You assumed from that opener that Risae had disclosed your brief conversation to Mokuba. You would refrain from calling it tattling, only because it didn't offend you.

 

"We all know that's not true," you replied, cutting into your buttered lobster tail. "Seto is much too strong headed to be bent to my will."

 

"Like I said, don't listen to her," Mokuba said. "If she wants something, my brother will get it for her at the drop of a hat. Private island, he's on the phone before she can say where, a million roses sprinkled with diamonds, been there, done that, child support for a friend in need, he'll pay for it out of his personal card — ”

“Mokuba that's enough!”

 

“—An actual star from space, probably will make some machine to pluck the burning ball of fire right out of the sky.”

 

“Mokuba!”

 

That familiar expression of awe and reverence bloomed on Risae's face.

 

Your harsh tone could hardly disconcert him, being conditioned to a lifetime of Seto. "Cats," he began where he had left off. "Seto hates animals. I couldn't have an ant farm growing up. Then he married her, and suddenly they have two cats. Not only that, he lets them sleep on his pillow and play on his study desk and throw up on his keyboard."

 

"Mokuba mind your conversation at the dinner table," you warned.

 

"On most days I'm not allowed in my brother's study."

 

You trained on him a glare and he reserved himself to taking a bite of his steak. Beside him, Risae ate quietly. You observed her table decorum. It wasn't a formally set dinner so you couldn't gauge her etiquette as you would have liked, but just from how clumsily she held her cutlery, and gripped her wine glass too far up, it revealed enough to form an opinion; and not a fair one. Not to pin her conspicuously with your scrutiny, you looked away as she looked to you, likely having sensed your gaze lingering over her.

 

You changed the direction of conversation. “Risae,” you said, “what do your parents do?”

 

Mokuba called out your name accusingly.

 

“Believe me or not, I could honestly care less which household’s daughter she is. This isn’t Edo. But if you want me to convince Seto, I need to know. I’ve never pitched a project I wasn’t a hundred percent informed about.”

 

“My father’s a — ”

 

“He’s in engineering,” Mokuba spoke on her behalf.

 

“A mechanic,” she corrected. “He’s a mechanic and driver for Kaiba Corp. and the employees.”

 

You watched her slightly stunned. You would form your next words carefully. It was not that you saw her less as a consequence of her father’s profession but you knew better than to believe your husband would share such noble sentiments.

 

As deeply as Seto loved his younger brother, he and by extension his marriage was incontestably a valuable bargaining chip for corporate expansion. The last remaining in the family following your marriage to Seto to consolidate a dominant market presence — amongst other things — in the gaming industry. This, would not be on par with his expectations. Seto liked seeing blue blood bone deep and she would bleed the most ordinary shade of scarlet.

 

She apologized. You couldn’t be certain what for, and then she said, “I’m sorry, I wish I could have given you a better answer.”

 

You felt guilty of your expression.

 

You set down your cutlery. “Those words aren’t an apology to me, they’re a direct dishonour to the parents who spent their youth raising you. You look like someone who’s received a lot of love from her family and few are ever fortunate to have experienced that. A profession doesn’t define a man anymore than their family. He makes an honest living, doesn’t he?” She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Then you should be proud of that. There are too many professions out there which rely on cutting others down. It’s those who have to be sorry.”

 

There were noble professions — or so society had titled them — and in your eyes, noble people. Most would consider your father’s occupation as one serving a nation, distinguished and respectable, but he had been a human so unfathomable despicable, second only to his wife, that together they had corrupted every sense of self you had possessed as a young child.

 

“Now following up that speech, I hate to but I do need to ask about the rest of your family. Your mother. What does she do?”

 

“She’s a caregiver. She gets assigned based off of necessity so...she’s not always home,” she explained.

 

“Healthcare. I can work with that. And the rest?”

 

“I have two older sisters, a younger sister and a brother. The youngest two are in high school. My oldest sister works in a department store, and the second is working part time in a cafe while searching for work.”

 

You exchanged your gaze with Mokuba. He was still, knowingly so.

 

You sighed. “Are any of them married?” you questioned.

 

“No, but my sisters have boyfriends — one of them is engaged.”

 

You knew exactly what Seto would say. He would say the Kaiba family supported enough charity. Then there was also the matter of the significant others and the subsequent connections the family held to others. You didn’t see any of these marriages as ones of benefit to Mokuba’s relationship.

 

You soon excused yourself early, though through it, you had not failed to see the small smiles and contained laughs the couple shared in response to hushed remarks between them.

 

...

 

It seemed foolish to lie to your husband; he always found out and with lying there were repercussions. As he would never punish you, the brunt of his wrath would find its way to Risae, and that would be an infinitely worse alternative to having him swallow the bitter truth now.

 

"So?" Seto waited expectantly for you to settle into the bedside chair.

 

"You already know where this is going to go. She's not what you expected, and less what you want."

 

"And so why does it feel like you're going to waste my time trying to change my mind?" Seto snarled.

 

"Because affluent families don't make good people. The people who raised us, or failed us, are testaments to that."

 

"Save the friendship speech, Mokuba already tried. What he wouldn't tell me is what her family does. That's all I care to know."

 

"Her mother is in health care.”

 

He merely looked to you, saying nothing.

 

“Her father...he works for Kaiba Corp." He seemed to be intrigued, if only briefly until you delivered the latter part of your sentence. "...As a mechanic."

 

"What?"

 

"And driver."

 

"Absolutely not!" Seto barked. "I will not have my little brother involved with the daughter of a man who buffs my rims. And not just mine, my employees' rims!"

 

"Seto I know," you said, leaning forward and stroking his arm, before slowly clasping your hand around his. "And I thought I should tell you, that he's considering proposing to her — ”

 

"What?" He was incensed, motioning to shoot out of bed.

 

"— He told me not to tell you so don't do anything rash," you said stopping him. "If you go say anything now, it's safe to say your brother and I will never have a good relationship."

 

Breathing in deeply, he fought to relax his facial muscles bound with all the arrogance and loathing of a man scorned. He leaned back away against the headboard.

 

"Fine," he said. "Then I'll give you the envelope and leave it to you throw some cold water on the gold digger's face. Maybe that will wake her up."

 

“What makes you think she's after his money?" you asked Seto. "Who cares about prestige and pedigree if your brother is going to be miserable for the rest of his life in an arranged marriage? Risae seems to make Mokuba happy. And while I wholeheartedly agree that getting engaged right now after a few weeks of knowing her is not the way to go, why don't we just step back and watch a little bit? I asked him to hold off on the proposal.”

 

"Ours was an arranged marriage,” Seto told you, “and you're perfectly happy. I don't imagine you believed you would be happy with me, that I couldn’t make you happy. In fact I recall you telling me in hysterics that you've made a terrible mistake and that you could never live like this. I knew differently then and I know what's best for him now."

 

He had awfully good foresight but you were determined. "I will give up our honeymoon, if you would give this a chance. I believe she will make your brother really happy."

 

He studied you. "You said you really wanted a honeymoon," Seto inquired curiously.

 

"I don't think I can ask you for two favours in the same day. So..."

 

"You would give that up to see Mokuba happy?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Well they have no relation to each other." Your heart sank. "So I don't see why one needs to suffer for the other to be realized. Do as you please, but understand that this is now your responsibility. And on the topic of our honeymoon, choose somewhere warm. I've had enough of this miserable weather."

 

You squealed at a frequency which likely tortured his eardrums and leaped at him. It was such an assault to him in his current condition that he wheezed as his body broke your willing fall. You would go on to receive an earful, and it would all be reciprocated with unsolicited kisses; not an inch of his face would be spared.

...

 

You turned the bathroom lights off, smoothing lotion over your hands. The cats were play fighting by Seto's feet at the foot of the bed. He had conditioned himself to ignore them.

 

Without reservation you crawled under the comforter beside him. His voice grating against a sore throat and congested sinuses were beginning to sound almost foreign. Either having grown tired of the novel, or having finished it, he was occupying himself with a giant holographic-projected screen hovering above the bed. The reality surrounding your husband was always akin to a sci-fi film and these things would no longer stand to faze you.

 

He was not working; you didn't think he had the capacity nor dexterity at the moment to be engaged in a video game, no, this was just some duelling tournament in a grand arena.

 

He released some hybrid between a groan and an attempt at speech. To your lack of reaction to it he looked over at you trying to borrow under his arm. "You're going to get sick."

 

"I don't care."

 

He huffed. "If you want to volunteer yourself to be this miserable then be my guest."

 

"You know if I get to stay in bed with you all day, then it's actually a blessing. When else will I get to stay with you in bed for days on end without you running off to that precious company of yours."

 

"Speaking of," Seto said, "why weren't you at work?"

 

"I told them my husband was sick and had all my schedules postponed for the week."

 

"Why? I can take care of myself."

 

"Seto...did no one take care of you when you were sick as a child?"

 

Stupid question; perhaps you had contracted a brain dissolving virus.

 

"Did someone take care of you?"

 

"I'm sorry."

 

"...The public system is so pitifully underfunded that orphanages can barely afford regular supervision," he added after a while. "No one had time to baby you. And no one in this family could care enough to."

 

"Did you get sick often growing up?"

 

"Didn't make a difference. I wasn't raised by a man who cared for such particulars. The line between being an asset and being useless was especially clear."

 

"Being sick can hardly be helped," you told him.

 

"Tell him that."

 

"If I ever go to hell, I'll be sure to keep this in mind."

 

Seto chuckled, lifting the ambiance, and focused again on the screen.

 

"What tournament is this?" you asked him, stubbornly writhing your way to cocoon yourself between his side and the comforter.

 

"We can watch something else," he quickly said.

 

"No, no it's fine. Will you not sleep?"

 

"Lying down isn't the most convenient at the moment."

 

"Did you want me to rub some vapour rub on your chest? Or boil some water to steam so you can breathe easier?"

 

"It's fine. I'll turn this off when you need to sleep," Seto said.

 

"I don't need to sleep, but did you know you sound adorable when you're sick?"

 

"Don't patronize me with your sadism."

 

"I'm not saying I enjoy you being sick. And I'm also not asking you for how you need to be treated after that comment. A good steam with vapour rub in the water will clear those blocked sinuses right up."

 

His grudging protests would not discourage you, though you would admit he was an aggravatingly obstinate man. His efforts could not be recounted without praise, and when you had at last subdued him to sit in front of the boiling basin of ointment infused water, you had at your wits end, resorted to calling him a "stubborn jackass who was going to be widowed before thirty if he kept up with his stick-up-his-ass stunts."

 

He had simmered, though something in that statement must have struck a chord because he complied.

 

"I don't know how you expect this to help. The prescribed medicine works fine."

 

"Home remedies always work because it's done with love," you countered, kissing his cheek before draping him with a blanket and holding his head over the water so he would not avoid inhaling the hot steam.

 

"If I didn't know any better I would think you were trying to kill me," he groused, by the sound of his voice, scrunching his nose.

 

"It's suppose to burn, that mean it's working. Now, breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth, that way the medicine reaches everywhere. And don't try to hold your breath."

 

"Am I a child?" Still, he struggled, shuddering ever so slightly.

 

You would confess, you could never stand something so pungent as herbal balm in your steam; it would always feel like acupuncture against your frontal lobe and hellfire on your eyes. You preferred a milder, ginger or lemon in your water, but knowing Seto's resistance to most anything, he needed this.

 

You sat on the chair beside him, rubbing soothing circles on his back. You received several snide remarks for the way you tended to him.

 

You could hear his breathing change, a croaking resonating from his lungs. Tearing away a handful of tissues you held them under the blanket tented over him. "Do you need to blow your nose?"

 

"Stop that," he hissed, though he accepted, and proceeded to do exactly that.

 

You extended your hand under the blanket and asked for the used ones. "That's unsanitary," he said, "I can throw them away myself."

 

"Don't be silly. You've done worse for me."

 

"It's fine."

 

So you just blindly snatched them, taking advantage of his slower reflexes. Disposing them you returned to your chair. The fresh tissues you had left him were now used and crumpled on the coffee table.

 

You gently pulled away the blanket and handed him a face towel. His face had beaded with sweat slowly converging to a gleaming sheet. "Feel better?"

 

"Considerably," Seto admitted.

 

"Maybe you should listen to me so often," you said as you collected his used pile of tissues. It was slightly nauseating though you hoped he would not notice.

 

"Don't me smug," he said, plodding to the bed and collapsing into the pile of pillows.

 

"Do you want me to fluff those for you? You've been lying on them all day." you asked, disappearing briefly into the bathroom.

 

"Hardly makes a difference."

 

You didn't need to, but holding him upright against you, you fluffed the pillows. And he wouldn't tell you, not knowing all the words, but he was grateful; grateful that you were his and grateful that you had grown to love him twice.

 

Without a word he had turned off the duelling tournament and switched to an on demand subscription app as you cuddled against his side. He asked you what you wanted to watch, and you said it did not matter. He navigated without a second thought to The Great British Baking Show.

 

How had he known? He paid more attention to you, he said, than you give him credit for.

 

He was miserable without choice from the flu and now miserable by choice as he disposed himself to watch some show which you knew he found absolutely mind numbing for your sake.

 

You watched the show until you both fell asleep.

 

...

 

When you woke up the room was still deceivingly dark, curtains drawn. The phone on the nightstand read 11:20. Up in a frenzy, your sudden movement startled the cats draped asleep over you. Ryu hissed and Suki sought sanctuary in the bathroom, consequently tangling between Seto's legs as he tried to leave.

 

There were iron bolts on each joint trying to affix you to the sheets, though the sensation was secondary if not entirely ignored. You had slept right through the conference meeting.

 

Seto only needed one glance at your face to guess. "I handled the meeting. If you're planning to go back to sleep, eat something before you do."

 

"Thank you."

 

Sitting on the edge of the bed he placed the back of his palm on your forehead. "I knew this would happen," he muttered.

 

"Knew what would -- " You had heard it then, or more so felt it, your voice a rough croak, scraping against razor blades as it tried to leave your throat. "Seto," you whined. "I feel icky."

 

He scoffed. "I believe this is where I tell you I told you so."

 

"Seto! Ah."

 

"Feels worse than it looks doesn't it? Don't strain your voice or you might lose it altogether. The physician is on his way to take a look at you."

 

Just then Suki returned to her rightful place on the bed, Seto's pillows, which was now temporarily a mound on your side of the bed where he had taken up residence. You concluded that it was not the place, rather his scent that she was attracted to; even doused in all the acrid fumes of your home remedies she was not deterred. Or maybe, as you had also noticed, he was particularly warm, even on days he was well. The allure of heat would also explain why she frequented his work desk when his computer was warm.

 

She stalled for a moment atop the pillows, one paw raised and bent, frozen mid-march as if somehow her system had glitched. Then she let out the most precious sneeze.

 

"Don't coo at it," Seto snapped. "Now these sheets need to be burned. Even the raccoons are getting sick."

 

You lifted her and held her a decimetre from his face before cradling her. "How can you be so cruel to your own children? Just look at her adorvable-whittle-face."

 

"Maybe I called the wrong doctor," Seto said, standing to pace off somewhere.

 

"How are you feeling?" you asked him.

 

"Better than you."

 

He was right, a part of you thought you were dying but now, you had him, and you didn’t think anyone had ever been so happy to be sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think! I might do a scene of Seto struggling to give reader a bath after he recovers and she’s still sick as a dog so let me know what you think of that.


	61. The Loose Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There has been a lot of chapters leading up to this in this series, I realize. And I don’t know if anyone is reading, or following along at this point, but I’ve given up on compiling one single final chapter. If I leave it to be one chapter, this series would forever stay paused, and never find an end. I have it all planned out, but I have excerpts written here and there and I think it would be better to connect the dots little and little. There might be just one more after this, or a couple, we’ll see. 
> 
> I started this to get all the stories I had for this couple out of my head, and it doesn’t quiet seem like it’s all over yet.
> 
> If anyone is still reading, thank you. And to all the readers this story has had before, I’m grateful.

You opened your eyes, the ceiling was a bright white; blinding, while the darkness of closed eyes was soothing. The fabric clinging to your skin floated away and you were cold, and behind closed lids you saw bloodshot sunsets.

 

It was all vaguely familiar and you were afraid. You opened your eyes and your husband stood over you, drowning you in a bathtub spilling at the edges. You began to cry.

 

Behind him, another man, he was asking Seto to completely submerge you, you heard between flashes of darkness and swivelling white lights. 

 

You reached for Seto’s shirt and clutched onto fistfuls of the fabric. Your limbs flailed, but the defiance was easily thwarted; water soaked his shirt in streaks. Still, he held on, gritting his teeth.

 

“This is for your own good,” you thought your husband had said. “It’ll be over soon and you’ll feel better.”

 

…

 

There was a burning cold licking your limbs. Muffled voices; a young woman receiving orders you could not decipher rose just above the slapping of footsteps on stone floors, it was all around you and you could no longer ignore the disruption.

 

Seto leaned over your bedside, same shirt, crinkled, and unbuttoned slightly at the top as it always was at home.

 

“In my dream,” you said softly, “you tried to kill me.”

 

“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” he said scoldingly, wiping your arms with a cold clothe. “Your fever reached 104 degrees in the middle of the night. The physician recommended a lukewarm bath. I’ve been sitting here since then trying to bring down the temperature.”

 

It was still night, you understood

 

“Are you mad at me?”

 

“No.”

 

His words were terse, and your whole body throbbing with fresh pain, you grew paranoid. He turned to the waiting maid and instructed for a new bowl of ice to be brought in.

 

“Seto?”

 

“What?”

 

“You are mad at me, aren’t you?”

 

He spoke your name sternly, as if rebuking a small child. “This is why I told you to stay away from me while I was sick.”

 

“You’re still sick aren’t you?”

 

“Clearly,” he said, “I’m fine.”

 

“You spent all day yesterday taking care of me too. I’m sorry.”

 

At first he said nothing, continuing to brush the pouch of ice over your arms and then legs. So you tugged on his shirt sleeve, looking at him with worried eyes.

 

“I don’t know what you’re apologizing for,” Seto said. “Sometimes I wonder if you understand the concept of being married. Then again, what did I expect marrying a child like you?”

 

The servant returned with a fresh bowl of ice and you could not fathom if his had been an insult or a remark of endearment.

 

“I’m...sorry I worry you so much, but I’m fine, really. You always worry about me...” you said in a small voice.

 

“That’s because you make me worry!” he shouted, slapping the wet cloth over the edge of the old old basin. “I can’t seem to go a month without having one of these nights where I’m left wondering if I’ll lose you.” He paused for a while with a distant gaze which appeared to be considering something. He dismissed the maid and only spoke when the door was closed behind her. “What am I supposed to do if you’re gone...would you — would you have me remember you when I bring in a new wife? Tell my children about you and what could have been?”

 

“What?”

 

He seemed to have transfixed himself into a stone statue following those words.

 

“Seto?”

 

“You haven’t completely recovered yet. You need to be sensible with how you manage your health.”

 

“Bring in a new wife?” you asked, swallowing as you felt a croak rise of your throat. “Have I not been good enough?” There were tears warming your eyes.

 

“That’s not it.”

 

“I’m sorry I’ll — I’ll try to do better.” Your lips quivered, tears swelling to obscure your vision of him. You reached your hands to him; in your delirium, it all seemed possible. “Seto please don’t leave me — ” tears were drawing slow trails over your cheeks “— you’re all I have.”

 

“Those weren’t my words,” he replied sharply. “Where would I go? Those were what you I’m sure, so nobly considered your last..to me.”

 

“I’ve never said that.”

 

“Will you remember me? After a long time has passed, and you’ve found someone else?” He sounded mechanical, as if reading a practiced script that had grown stale. “Will you tell your children about me?Is that selfish, asking you to remember what I look like? If I look just like this, will you be able to find me in our next life?”

 

You shook your head. “What are you — ”

 

Seto laughed cynically. “Why would I tell my children about you? You’ll be their mother, and you’ll be there.

 

“You’re so nauseatingly poetic. You keep asking what you said to me that night your heart stopped. I hear those words every night. I’ve come to hate seeing you with closed eyes.” Drawing in a heavy breath he combed his fingers through his fringe; it defiantly cascaded forward again. “I hate seeing you still and unmoving. I took you for granted when you were yourself. You should focus on recovering so you can be well again and irritatingly noisy when I’m trying to work...It makes this place bearable.”

 

“Are you crying?” you asked, squeezing his hand.

 

“Of course not.”

 

“Seto...”

 

“And what the hell was that letter?”

 

“What letter?”

 

“The one you wrote and — never mind.”

 

“So that’s what I said... I’m sorry. If something ever did happen to me, I’m sorry but I don’t think I can wish you happiness with another woman.” You smiled bitterly. “I would stay here, and watch over you, and make this place miserable for her.”

 

“That’s hardly any better, but at least you’ve made your mind up to stay.”

 

“I wouldn’t ever go leaving you here willingly. They’d have to take me kicking and screaming. And they would have to get past you too wouldn’t they? You would never let me. You stopped it last time too.”

 

“I think the fever has gotten to your brain,” Seto said. He tried to feign indifference but you knew him better.

 

…

 

You woke up to the familiar cold sensation scraping your limbs. It was bright out now, and the room was a box of glowing light and fine dancing dust.

 

“I’ve always wanted to marry a prince!”

 

He was leaned over by your bedside, “A prince?” Seto asked amused, reaching past your flailing arms for your cheek with the wet towel.

 

You slapped both your palms against either side of his face; had you been sober, you would have been apologetic for the sharp sting which split across his cheeks.

 

“But you’re too good to be a prince, more like an emperor, don’t you think?”

 

“Did I give her too much of a dose?” he muttered, reaching for the top buttons on your nightgown.

 

“Seto do you think we’ll have lots of babies? Like lots?”

 

You missed the unceremonious chuckles the maids standing behind your husband smothered.

 

“If you want.” He reached past the constraining neckline of your nightgown and wiped the sweat gathering between the valley of your chest. “Why?”

 

“I hate children.”

 

He was silent for a moment, processing the abrupt declaration. Then he frowned. “Like I’ve said, there is always adoption,” Seto said soberly.

 

“No!” The protest was so high pitched that it halted him mid-motion, frowning. He hung the rag over the edge of a water bowl. “I want to see mini-Setos running around the mansion, I want them to be yours. I want them to know that they belong to someone and some place. I never had that, you know? I was always running away...

 

“Until I met you.” You giggled ever so childishly. “But I didn’t meet you, did I? You sort of — happened...to me. It was the best thing ever you know.”

 

“Are you out of it or are you screwing with me?” Seto asked, furrowing his brows. He motioned for the maids to leave the room.

 

“I love you,” you told him, placing a hand on his cheek. “so so much.”

 

Seto turned away again to glare at the servant congregating and idling by the door, wanting to listen to more of the interaction.

 

Unaware of this, you continued, “You’re so kind, and handsome, and you concern yourself with everything about me. You’re like the best husband...in the whole world. If you want babies, I should give you lots of them, shouldn’t I?”

 

“Why are you so fixated on this?” he muttered.

 

You giggled, then plopped back on the pillow, out cold again.

 

Shaking his head Seto soaked the cloth draped over the water bowl, before wringing it and carefully setting it over your forehead.

 

“The way I see it,” he spoke quietly, “you are the child.”

 

…

 

 

You were switching between channels, nothing catching your interest. You changed through versions and versions of you as yourself, punctuated occasionally with some Korean actor who was popular at the moment. Then you heard your name being leveraged for ratings in an entertainment talk show. Supposedly, you had gained a concerning amount of weight. Supposedly you were expecting Seto’s child. Supposedly they knew this because you wore concealing clothes as of late and avoiding alcohol at functions.

 

“Change the channel,” Seto said knowingly. It was firm, bordering on being an order. As if in the next moment, he would reach out and do it himself.

 

Lowering the spoonful of soup he held out, you looked back, impatiently stabbing at the volume button with your thumb.

 

“Next week it will be me having an affair, and the week after that it will be you and plastic surgery,” Seto droned. “Why do you give third rate gossip shows and their filth for content the time of day?”

 

In an unexpected turn of events, he found you smiling, nonchalant and dare he say peaceful.

 

“It doesn’t bother me anymore,” you said turning to him with that same smile growing, as if it was an epiphany you had just now discovered and sharing with him. The crease between his brows eased. “I used to get these...waves of anxietyin my chest — ” you bunched up the neckline of your nightie “— like my whole heart was being squeezed, like when you drop from the top of a roller coaster...when I heard these things about me. I would ask my PR and legal teams to find the bastard who wrote them about me and make sure he never worked again. I wouldn’t eat properly for weeks if they said I was putting on weight.” You reached for his hand, clutching on. You shook your head. “But these says I ask myself why I should care what they think. I have an amazing husband waiting for me to come home at the end of every day and...I just want to be a good wife to you.”

 

Seto allowed the slightest curl of his lips, a smirk but almost a smile. He placed his hand over your crown, brushing back your hair. “It would seem you’re all grown,” he said, his tone an indiscernible stir of droll and serious. 

 

Then the voices on the screen piqued your attention. “Seto Kaiba himself was seen sometime last month frequenting a newborn store — you know the one Kazu, Blooms & Butterflies.”

 

“Ah yes,” the young man said, “the designer department store for children by the Ichihara crossing. He was seen leaving with a single branded bag followed by his secretary, with his fiancée absent, at least in this picture.”

 

You watched, no stared at the suspended image of Seto on screen, unable to form a thought. There was not much to add to the narration.

 

“Now, the Kaiba family is a distinguished and prominent family, arguably the most powerful following the royal family themselves, what would be the consequences of her giving birth to Seto Kaiba’s firstborn our of wedlock? Would their be a claim for illegitimacy made...”

 

You had lost interest in the discourse. You turned to Seto, demanding him an explanation.

 

“It was sometime before you recovered your memory,” he said. “You were choosing colours for the nursery and asking me to choose between baby names, so I thought having you focus on preparing for the baby would help the healing process.” His voice was heavy, reluctant. He set the bowl of soup back on the tray balanced on the nightstand. He held his eyes elsewhere, away from you. “I made you lose the baby not long after.” It was said so quietly he may have not said it at all.

 

“Seto... you didn’t make me lose the baby. It was an accident,” you defended. “...Just... an accident.”

 

He snatched his hand away from yours. “This why I told you to change the channel,” he barked, turning off the screen. The holographic screen vaporized above you. 

 

“What did you buy?” you rasped, staring down at your lap, suddenly sombre.

 

He stood up abruptly, and left the room. You were without the vigour to argue, to hold him back.

 

When he returned, you found two tiny pairs of shoes set on your lap, side by side, pink and blue. They were so unbelievably small. He took his seat by the bedside. He said nothing. From the corner of your eye you could see, his jaw was tense, eyes fixated on a spot on the carpet. That crease had etched itself as deep as it would go between his brows.

 

It was normal to cry, to choke on your thoughts. Only wheezing would come. Clutching them to your chest, you poured over the tiny shoes, over and over, heaving, sobbing, convulsing violently and hoping to stop by twisting the sheets under your fist.

 

Seto could find in him to do nothing. At least now, he thought, if his wife held on to them, he would stop staring at them during the most vulnerable hours of the night, alone in his study. It was selfish, but perhaps unbeknownst to his conscious thoughts he knew, that you would comfort him, make it stop.

 

“It’s alright,” he said, reaching to soothe your back, regretting his decision. Maybe some things were best kept to himself. “I’m here.”

 

He said this for a long time.

 

When you calmed, you stared absently at the distant wall. As the long stretches of silence passed, it began to unsettle your husband, how glassy your eyes had become.

 

When he called your name, you smiled again. It was a tired smile, though hardly defeated.

 

“My step-father, if I can call him that,” you told Seto, “the man who raised me, I didn’t realize back then that he wasn’t very affectionate. He was dutiful but distant. When you asked me to marry you, that’s what terrified me so much, because I think that’s all I ever wanted. For someone to get close enough to know all of me, the parts of me I couldn’t love and to still be there. I thought, great — ” you wiped your cheek with the back of your hand, sniffling, “— I thought great, I get to marry the coldest man on this side of the planet and be lonely for the rest of my life. I was afraid of you getting close, of ruining that illusion of the girl you had probably seen on the glossy magazines, the girl you liked, and then again never getting close enough to know the girl behind it. Then you told me you loved me, when I was a mess, when I was at my lowest. You loved me.” You squeezed closed your eyes of a defiant few tears. “It’s probably the last thing anyone would ever expect from you. You’re just so thoughtful and kind to me...These are things I didn’t even know I needed. And you’ve been nothing but.

“This is hard right now. For the both of us.” Reaching forward, you held his hands in both of yours, fighting his attempts to recoil. “The timing wasn’t right, that’s it. You’re not a man in a position to have a child that could be considered illegitimate. We owe our child better than that. Everything that happened, it was for the best. Next spring, I’m going to walk down to aisle to you first, then I’m going to take some time off of work, and we can make all the babies you want. Deal?”

 

He looked at you for a moment as if trying to decipher you. Then he nodded.

 

Or perhaps he had been wrong, perhaps there were things which were better shared. He felt lighter.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re still here, please let me know what you think.


End file.
